Enigma & T-Bone: An Origin Story
by EFAW
Summary: The origin of LA's first (and most dysfunctional) superhero duo! Too bad they hate each other. (Sort of.) And are stuck with each other. (Only sort of literally.) Wesvis. Superhero AU. Oneshot.
1. Chapter 1: The Enigma Project

**Summary:** The origin of LA's first (and most dysfunctional) superhero duo! Too bad they hate each other. (Sort of.) And are stuck with each other. (Only sort of literally.) Wesvis. AU. Oneshot.

 **Warnings:** Superheroes. Canon pre-story character-death. Some swearing. Some torture. Mention of suicide. Bad science. Seriously. Don't come here for real science. Superhero clichés.

 **Disclaimer:** I neither own nor am affiliated with Common Law in any way.

 **This story is inspired by a Valiant comic called** _ **Quantum & Woody**_ **. It is hilarious and my first thought upon reading it was how very Wesvis the two main characters acted, so I knew I had to write an AU. Because I love AUs. Also, superheroes.**

 **OOOO**

 **Enigma & T-Bone: An Origin Story: The Enigma Project**

" _Love me or hate me, both are in my favor… If you love me, I'll always be in your heart… If you hate me, I'll always be in your mind."_

— _William Shakespeare_

 **XXXX**

In hindsight, maybe starting a fight at his best friend's funeral and getting arrested wasn't the greatest idea in the world.

To be fair, it is entirely Travis's fault. He's the one who strolled in like nothing had happened, like seven years hadn't passed full of bad feelings and bitter memories turned sour. He's the one who quietly stood in the back of the crowd with his hands folded in front of him and his head bowed, but he hadn't even _been_ there, he hadn't been there for _seven years_ so he had no right to be here now, where was he, where was he when Paekman needed him, when _Wes_ needed him—!

Wes will admit that he may have lost his head for a moment there. He's not entirely certain how he ended up across the grass, throwing a punch at Travis's big stupid face. He does know how he ended up wrestling with the man, because Travis was never the sort to back down from a fight, especially when he was provoked.

Wes also isn't sure who called the cops, just that one minute he was reeling from a blow to the side of his head and the next he was being pulled off of Travis and cuffs were being slapped on.

So now he's sitting in the sterile interrogation room, staring at the industrial grey walls and cursing Travis's name. This is _in every way_ Travis's fault.

 **XXXX**

Travis has, over the years, had plenty of experience in interrogation rooms. He knows the drill. So when the pretty brunette cop walks into the room, Travis is lounging in his chair, his boots up on the table, smiling like he doesn't have a care in the world. The key is to not let them get to you.

The cop pauses in the doorway, one eyebrow going up, but she doesn't comment. Instead, she sits down, setting a plain manila folder in front of her. She's got a cup of coffee in her other hand, which she takes small, dainty sips from. "I'm Detective Amy Laroche."

"Nice to meet you. Do I get one of those?" He nods towards the coffee cup.

"No," she answers without hesitation. She flips open the folder, angling it so he can't see what's inside, though he has a pretty good guess. Sure enough… "Travis Marks. Or should I say, Michael Ealy? Ricky Nash? Jake Attica? Oh, how about Darwyn al-Sayeed?"

"Nice," Travis whistles, "Didn't think you guys had that last one."

She makes a noncommittal sound, staring at his file over the rim of her coffee cup. "Looks like you've been busy. Let's see…got arrested for drag racing at sixteen…then you spiraled out on the fast track to nowhere." She flips a few more pages. "Quite a list of accomplishments you've got here. Breaking and entering, larceny, grand theft auto. Even a few charges for assault. Get in a lot of fights, Mr. Marks?"

Travis tenses slightly, but forces the easy, devil-may-care smile to stay on his face. No need to let the lady cop know she's hit a nerve. "Today was self-defense. Wes hit me first. Ask anyone."

"No, I'm sure. And I'm sure you did nothing to provoke it, right? You're the innocent party here?"

Since Travis has no intention of airing his dirty laundry, he just keeps smiling and says, "Damn straight."

"Right." Detective Laroche purses her lips and shuts the folder, studying him. "What brings you to town, Mr. Marks?"

That throws him for a second, because he would have thought that was _obvious_. "My friend died. Or, am I not allowed to come to his funeral? There a law against that now?"

She ignores his sarcasm. "When was the last time you talked with David Paek, before his death?"

"I don't know, a couple months ago?" He drops his feet off the table and leans forward, hands folded in front of him. "Why are you asking?"

She stares blandly at him and takes a sip of her coffee.

 **XXXX**

"You have quite a history with Travis Marks, don't you?" Detective Kate Cafferty asks.

"What gave you that clue?" Wes asks sourly, crossing his arms and scowling his fiercest. It doesn't have much of an effect. The blonde detective doesn't so much as blink.

"How did you meet?"

"What is this, my biography? How is that relevant?"

"You're right." The detective smiles blandly and taps her pen against her lips. "It's not. Suffice to say there's… _history_ between you two, yes?"

Wes clenches his jaw and stares stonily at her.

Unperturbed, Cafferty studies the file in front of her. "How long has it been since you've seen him?"

"Travis?" Even the mere mention of his name is enough to get Wes's blood boiling. He knows

better than to show it in the middle of an interrogation room, though he can't quite get his jaw to relax. "Seven years. And I would have happily gone seven _more_ without seeing his stupid face."

Cafferty makes a vague noise, and it annoys Wes because he _knows_ these tricks, has used some of these tricks in his own practice, and now they're being used on _him_ like he's some sort of _common criminal_ and it is just _insulting._

"What about your friend, Paek?" Cafferty suddenly asks, which is enough to startle Wes out of his anger because isn't this about the fight at the cemetery? "Did Travis have the same sort of _history_ with him?"

" _Definitely_ not." God, the idea is laughable, except Detective Cafferty isn't laughing. Wes exhales, runs a hand through his hair. "Look, we all knew each other in college. We were friends. Then Travis and I had a falling out, bad enough I punched him in the face the first time I saw him again. I don't know anything about Travis and Paekman's relationship after that point."

"So you don't know when Paek might have had contact with Marks before his death?"

"No. He wouldn't have mentioned it even if he did. It's kind of a sore spot." Wes leans forward, using his best courtroom look to stare her down. "Why are you asking all these questions about Paekman? He's dead."

Cafferty shifts uncomfortably—he's hit a nerve. "We are simply gathering facts. Trying to answer some questions we still have."

"And you think _Travis_ has something to do with it?" Wes laughs, a short, sharp sound. "Look, Travis is a lot of things. A liar. A thief. A con man. But he'd never do anything to Paekman." He leans back, waving a dismissive hand. "Whatever you're looking for, Travis is _not_ the answer." The hand pauses midair, and Wes frowns. "Wait, why are you asking? Paekman's death was ruled an accident."

The detective looks down, bites her lip, and for the first time her cool composure cracks. "Like I said. We still have some questions."

"…unofficial questions," Wes supplies, mind jumping to the most obvious conclusion. "Because it _was_ ruled an accident. So whatever you think happened, you didn't have enough evidence for."

Cafferty purses her lips, then nods her head ever-so-slightly in acknowledgement.

All Wes can do is chuckle sourly and shake his head. "Whatever you want to think Travis did, he didn't. Trust me. I _hate_ him. If I thought he did it, I'd throw him under the bus in a heartbeat. But he didn't have anything to do with Paekman's death."

 **XXXX**

"Are you _kidding_ me?" Travis stares incredulously at the cop in front of him. "You _seriously_ think I had something to do with my friend's death?"

"That's not what we're saying," Detective Laroche protests, "we're simply trying to get all the facts."

"All the facts. _Right_. I know how this goes. Black man with a record, he _must_ be guilty of _something,_ right? And hey, we have this random unsolved murder lying around, let's pin it on him!"

"That's not what—"

"No. You know what? I'm done answering questions." Travis sits back, crosses his arms. "I want to leave now."

Nonplussed, Laroche stares at him. "Leave?"

"Yeah. Or am I not allowed to do that either?"

She tries to placate him. "Look, Mr. Marks, no one is accusing you of anything. We just have a few questions."

"Well, I'm not answering them." Travis scowls at her. "You haven't read me my rights, which means I'm not under arrest. And you can't pin the fight at the funeral on me, because I didn't throw the first punch. You have no right to keep me here. So either charge me with something, and get me a lawyer, or let me go." He grins, a mean sort of look. "I know my rights. I used to date a lawyer."

Slowly, Laroche exhales and starts gathering her things. "Of course, Mr. Marks," she says pleasantly, but it's the sort of forced civility people in retail use, the kind that says 'I really don't like you but I have to put up with you.'

She opens the door and waves him out with a sarcastic little flourish. "After you. And I hope if we have any more questions, we'll be able to contact you."

"Yeah," Travis scoffs, stomping out the door. "Whatever."

 **XXXX**

Wes is standing on the sidewalk in front of the station when he emerges, scrolling through his cell phone. For a second, Travis is motionless, struck dumb by the sight. It's been, god, _seven years_ since he's seen Wes, and some things are different but so many other things are the same. Travis knows that curve of Wes's back, the tense line of his jaw, the way his fingers _tap tap tap_ when he's annoyed. Seven years, but standing here, Travis feels like almost no time at all has passed.

Despite knowing he won't receive a warm welcome—the blooming bruises on his face prove that—Travis crosses the distance between them and clears his throat.

Wes glances up, bland disinterest turning to a fierce, undisguised loathing. "Oh," he says, venom dripping from every letter. "It's you." He gives Travis a quick scan. "I see you didn't get stabbed in there."

Well, wow, Travis really shouldn't have expected anything less. "I was in an interrogation room, Wes. And even if I had been in holding, I wouldn't have gotten stabbed in two hours."

"Shame," Wes tsks dismissively, turning back to his phone. "What do you want?"

Wes's tone is a clear _Back off fuckface_ , but Travis has never been good about nonverbal boundaries. He's always been pretty loose with verbal and written boundaries, too. He tucks his hands in his pockets and shuffles an inch closer to Wes. "Wanna talk to you."

The glare Wes shoots him says he totally saw Travis move that inch and he doesn't appreciate it in the slightest. "Absolutely not. The time for _talking_ is long past." He thumbs his phone off and slips it into his pocket, turning on his heel to walk away.

"What about Paekman?"

Wes stops dead. He doesn't turn around, but he stops. Travis takes the opportunity to jog up beside him. "What about Paekman?" he repeats. "You're just gonna leave it at that?"

"Leave _what_ at that?" Wes demands, glaring at him. "What _about_ Paekman?"

"You heard what they said in there!" Travis waves a hand at the police station. "They think something's going on with Paekman's death! They don't think it was an accident! Don't you want to know who killed him?"

"They didn't say it was murder."

"They didn't have to!" Travis bounces a step closer. "Come on, isn't it eating at you?"

"No." Blunt, flat, and utterly uninterested. "You know why? I'm not a detective. And even if something _was_ going on, finding it out won't bring Paekman back." Wes takes a step back, putting some space between them. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

He starts heading down the sidewalk again. Travis stares after him, not entirely surprised that Wes is going right back to work after their friend's funeral. Wes always did like to distract himself from things that upset him.

Things like Paekman's death, or Travis's presence.

"What about me?" he calls to Wes's retreating back, a pointed lab jab that he's still here. "What should I do?"

Without looking back, Wes calls over his shoulder, "Why don't you leave? You're good at that."

Travis doesn't have a retort for that one.

 **XXXX**

 **Back In The Day**

"Hey, Wes," Paekman says as he emerges from his room, "What's up?"

Wes doesn't move, just continues to stare at the empty drawer in front of him. "He took the silverware."

"What? Who?" Paekman moves up beside him, looking at the drawer with its empty plastic dividers. "What the hell?"

"He took the silverware," Wes repeats. The words come out dull, empty. Beyond anger, beyond shock, to that cold, hollow place where pain goes to die. "Why would he take the silverware?"

"Wes," Paekman says suddenly, "Where's Travis?"

"I don't know," Wes mumbles, and he knows he should move, should do… _something_ , but he can't stop staring at the empty drawer in front of him. Empty like the hole in his chest, the place where his heart used to be until he woke up alone.

Empty like Travis's drawers and Travis's shelf in the bathroom, empty because he's _gone_ like he never even existed at all.

There's a rustle of paper behind him as Paekman finds the note. Wes hadn't even realized anything was wrong until he'd seen the note. He'd thought it a bit odd that Travis wasn't there when he woke, maybe, but Travis did that sometimes, stayed out late and didn't come back until late in the morning. Wes didn't ask a lot of questions—sometimes he was afraid he wouldn't like the answers.

The note had been sitting on the counter beside the coffeemaker, folded in thirds with Travis's customary scrawl on the front. He hadn't expected much of anything—he certainly hadn't expected what he got.

"Oh, geez," Paekman says, but Wes still can't move, standing still because he's afraid if he moves he'll just flounder.

"He took the silverware," he says once more, the part he's stuck on. Because Travis might have left, might have packed everything up and vanished into the night and said callous, terrible things in his note that left Wes feeling like his insides had been gouged out by a spoon, but why did he take the silverware? That doesn't make any _sense_.

"I know he did," Paekman sighs, wrapping his arm around Wes's shoulders. He moves carefully, like Wes is a fragile, brittle thing, but Wes takes comfort in the touch. "Come on, Wes, come sit down. Just sit down for a minute."

Wes allows himself to be led away from the drawer, guided to the couch. Wes sinks into the cushions, staring at his hands. He can hear Paekman dialing his phone, but that won't work. Wes tried; Travis's cell goes straight to voice mail.

Travis is _gone_.

"Why did he take the silverware?" he asks again, but Paekman is cursing in the kitchen and doesn't answer. "It's not even real silver."

The silverware drawer hangs open, as empty as the space inside his heart.

 **XXXX**

 **Now**

PC Labs is a series of nondescript concrete buildings with too few windows and a _really_ crappy security system. Or maybe Travis is just that good at B &E. Oh, sure, the keycard he lifted off one Mr. Kelvin Yu in the parking lot helps, as does the fact that Paekman has used the same three passwords since college and Travis knows _all_ of them, but even with all of that Travis wouldn't be sneaking through the silent halls of the labs if he wasn't _awesome_.

Okay, so in some circles being so confident in his breaking and entering skills wouldn't be considered the best thing in the world. But it's effective, and it gets him where he needs to go, which, right now, is inside PC Labs. Because Travis went through Paekman's apartment this afternoon, looking for any possible clue to what happened, but there was nothing.

That just leaves Paekman's work.

At eleven at night, PC Labs has one security guard at the front desk watching the monitors, two guards roaming the halls, and a bunch of stationary cameras that don't overlap nearly as often as they should, which makes it really easy to slip through the blind spots.

Travis has been doing this a long time. He's not _proud_ of it, but he _is_ confident. There's a difference.

He slides around the corner, and there's his destination: a plain green door at the end of the hall with a keypad above the doorknob and a small sign on the wall beside it. Travis pauses a heartbeat, staring at the little sign. They haven't had a chance to take it down yet—it still reads _David Paek, Research_.

"Let's see what you were researching, Paekman," Travis murmurs, punching in Paekman's passcode, the same one he used back in college as the code to his personal safe. (He used to keep his cigarettes in there, because Wes had a bad habit of throwing them out when they were just laying around, and Travis would sneak smokes on particularly restless days.)

After a tense five seconds, the light on the keypad turns green and the door clicks open.

(Seriously, they haven't changed Paekman's codes yet? This place has _terrible_ security. Sure, Travis is totally using it to his advantage, but come _on_.)

He slips inside, closing the door behind him. The laboratory is dark—Travis stands by the door until his eyes adjust, not willing to risk the lights. Not just yet. Instead, he pulls a penlight from his pocket and starts searching.

He doesn't know what exactly he's looking for, but he's working with the theory that he'll know it when he sees it.

 **XXXX**

After a solid ten minutes of riffling through drawers and attempting to break into Paekman's computer (unsuccessful, because this is the one time Paekman has ever used a password Travis doesn't know), Travis is about ready to throw his hands up and call it a night. He's found _nothing_. There has to be _something_ , some reason Paekman was killed, but Travis is having no luck.

"Maybe it's at his apartment?" he wonders, muttering to himself under his breath, though he doubts that because he already tried Paekman's place. Or maybe Paekman has another workspace here, and this is just his office?

Either way, he's not making any headway tonight, and if he stays too much longer he's afraid he's going to get caught. He should leave now and try again later.

Sighing dejectedly—because _damn_ , he thought he was gonna find something and _totally_ solve the case—Travis heads for the door.

The low rumble of voices makes him pause with his hand on the doorknob. Holding his breath, Travis leans in, presses his ear against the door.

"Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me!" Hissing under his breath, Travis backs away from the door, scoping the room. How is it that the _one_ night he decides to break into his dead friend's office, the security guard decides to take a stroll his way? If he gets caught in here, there is _no way_ the lady cop at the precinct will buy Travis's innocence.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck…_ The only real place to hide is either behind the filing cabinets or under the desk. And the filing cabinets aren't ideal because if the guard takes even two steps into the room, he'd be in plain sight. So the desk it is.

Travis dives across the room even as he hears the chirps of the buttons on the keypad. He makes it under the desk as the door handle turns.

 _In and out, Mr. Security Guard_ , he prays, _just take a quick look and go away. In and out_.

He holds his breath.

"Thank you so much," a familiar voice says, and Travis stiffens, biting his lip _hard_ to keep from shouting in outrage. "I really appreciate your help."

"You're welcome," a second voice says. This one is unfamiliar, and young, and a little nervous. A rent-a-cop from out front, maybe? "Um…should I stay and help you look for…whatever you're looking for?"

"Oh, _no_ , I couldn't take up any more of your time. You need to get back to your job, not stand around babysitting me." Travis is actually kind of impressed at the smarm being delivered right now. It's a level of con artist technique he really wouldn't have expected. "Like said, I really do appreciate this."

"But I—"

"I will call you if I need you. Thanks." And the door closes.

There's a long minute of silence, where they both wait in tense silence. But then the guard's footsteps sound, fading as he walks down the hallway, and Travis hears a slow sigh of relief.

Travis takes that as his cue to leap out, slamming his hands on top of the table. "What the _hell_ are you doing here?"

Wes jumps, knocking his elbow on the door he turns so fast. "Travis? What are you doing here?"

"I asked first. What are _you_ doing here?" His eyes widen. "You lying _bastard!_ You said you didn't care about Paekman!"

The blonde stiffens, eyes flashing. "Say that again. I _dare_ you."

Wes's voice is low and dangerous, and Travis may be reckless but he's not _stupid_. He changes his attack. "How did you even get in here?" he demands, coming around the desk. "That guy just walked you to the door?"

Wes lifts his head, sticking his jaw out. "I subpoenaed him."

"You _what_? How? You can't subpoena something if a case hasn't gone to court, and we know this one didn't because _hello_ , it was ruled an accident." Travis's eyes widen again, that same spark of realization. "Oh my god. You _lied_ to him. That poor rent-a-cop was just doing his job and you _bamboozled_ your way in."

Wes rolls his eyes, which would look a lot haughtier if he weren't also blushing furiously at the same time. "That's a ridiculous word. I don't know why you continue using it."

"Wes. _Wes_. Did you do that thing I taught you? Talk talk talk at 'em, distract and confuse 'em, make 'em do what you want." Wes's flush deepens, and Travis grin. "You _did_. Oh, I am so _proud_ of you. Mr. Upstanding Citizen, sinking down to _my_ level. This is a red letter day."

"Fuck you." Wes crosses his arms and does that hunchy thing he does when he gets all defensive. "Why are you here? How did you even get in?"

"As it turns out, this place has _shitty_ security. Well, you know. If the rent-a-cop is their first line of defense, then they're in trouble."

Scowling, Wes rolls his eyes and stomps past him, towards Paekman's desk.

"Oh, hey, I already checked there."

Wes ignores him and yanks open the top drawer. Shaking his head, Travis heads towards the filing cabinets again.

 **XXXX**

Frustrated, Wes puts his hands on his hips and glares at the room in general. "There's nothing here."

Travis, who has spent the past ten minutes sitting on Paekman's office chair, spinning in circles, chirps, "I told you."

"Shut up." Wes bites his lip, wracking his brain. "He's gotta have something in his lab."

Travis stops spinning. "What lab?"

"Well, he didn't do his research in _here_ , now did he?" Turning with a flourish, Wes heads for the door.

"Hey, hey!" Travis leaps out of the chair, wobbles for a minute as his equilibrium realigns, and scampers after him. "Where are we going?"

" _I_ am going to the research building. _You,_ hopefully,are going somewhere far away where I can neither see nor hear you."

Travis ignores him. " _Right._ Because Paekman was in research, so he'd have a lab in the research building." He thumps his forehead with the flat of his hand. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"Because you're a dumbass."

"Ah, Wes, you always remind me of the better times."

Wes lengthens his stride. Sadly, he is unable to outrun Travis.

Luckily for them, the research building is the squat concrete building next to the one housing Paekman's office. Equally lucky, PC Labs' crappy security holds, and they meet no one on the way. This time of night, there's absolutely no one about, which definitely makes things easier.

"So," Travis breaks the silence, "what's the wife think about you sneaking out and breaking into labs in the middle of the night?"

Wes almost walks into a wall. "What? That's not…I'm not married."

"Oh." Travis's voice is carefully bland. "Bummer. Separated? No, you're not wearing a ring. Divorced? She finally realize what an ass you are?"

Wes glances over his shoulder, but Travis doesn't look like he's mocking Wes. He looks like he's genuinely asking. It pisses Wes off, for reason's he's not entirely certain of.

He turns back ahead, glaring at the end of the hall. "I'm not divorced, and I'm not separated. There's no wife, Travis. No ex, either."

"Oh." Travis is quiet, a pause pregnant with expectation, and Wes waits for Travis to bite the bullet and just ask whatever he wants to ask.

"What about Alex?"

This time Wes _does_ hit the wall, elbow banging into the plaster as he whirls around. He barely notices. "How the _hell_ do you know about Alex?"

Unapologetically, Travis shrugs. "Paekman."

That means Paekman was telling Travis about Alex, about _Wes_ , things Travis had _no right to know_ , and for a second Wes is so enraged his vision goes dark. If Paekman were here—

But he's not. He's dead and buried and Wes has to remember that. Has to forget all the stupid assholeish things Paekman did while he was alive and focus on the here and now. Slowly, Wes relaxes hands he didn't realize he'd clenched and takes a long, slow breath.

He whirls and starts moving again. "Not that it's _any_ of your business," he snaps, voice projecting all the rage he is very valiantly _not_ demonstrating right now, "Alex and I never married. The engagement fell through."

"Oh," Travis says again, a quiet, surprised little sound. "What happened?"

"No." Wes's voice could melt steel, or freeze it. " _Absolutely not_. I am _not_ having this conversation with _you_."

He expects an angry denial, or a hotheaded remark, something Travis is so good at. But there's just an awkward silence, and then a quiet mutter, almost too low for Wes to hear.

"Yeah, I guess that's fair."

Wes clenches his jaw and bites back all the angry, hurt words that threaten to spill out. _No_. He's kept it all in for seven long years. He doesn't plan on ever having this conversation, and _certainly_ not while he is (mostly) illegally someplace he shouldn't.

"Hey, Wes."

Wes whirls on him, about ready to explode, he's so pissed. " _What?_ "

Travis hooks a thumb towards the door beside him, a plain steel door with a big, bold sign on it saying _DO NOT ENTER WHILE LIGHT IS FLASHING._ Wes glances up, and there's a red light—quiescent, this time of night.

Travis points again, this time to the small plaque beside the door. "I think we're here."

 _The Enigma Project_ , the plaque says, _David Paek._

 **XXXX**

"Alright, what's the cigarette code?" Wes asks, hand poised over the keypad.

Travis blinks. "What?"

"Paekman only has four passwords, and the only code with all numbers is the one for that stupid little safe you guys used to keep your cigarettes in." Wes gives him a sardonic look. "What, did you think I didn't know? It's kind of hard to miss it when your roommate _and_ your boyfriend are sneaking out to smoke."

"Huh." Travis pulls a face, rocking back on his heels. "I always thought we were so sly."

"Well, you weren't. What's the code?"

Travis gives it, and, just like the office door, this one pops right open. With a quick glance to make sure no one notices, they slip inside.

This room has no windows, and it's big enough Travis's little penlight doesn't illuminate much. They risk turning on the lights.

The room is large, at least fifty feet square. There's a single workstation against one wall, with a lone computer and a handful of office supplies. The majority of the room is taken up by a large, circular raised platform in the center of the floor. Surrounding the platform are metal panels, steel and silver, and circuitry and wires and Travis doesn't even know what else.

The two of them stand there silent, studying the strange device.

Travis can't help himself. "It looks like alien technology."

"There are no such things as aliens, Travis," Wes snaps instantly, the buzzkill. He was probably just waiting for Travis to say that. "And even if there were, Paekman was _not_ working on alien technology in this shitty lab complex."

"…true enough." Travis waits a beat. "Though aliens would be a _really_ good reason for killing him."

Wes face does that blotchy thing he does when he gets annoyed and kind of pissed. Travis feels a visceral amused pleasure at inducing it. All this time and he still knows how to push Wes's buttons.

"Come on." Wes moves into the room, sidestepping the platform and heading for the computers. Travis, who has always had more mechanical skills than Wes, moves up to the strange (totally alien) machine and studies it.

At least five minutes pass before Travis says, "I'm sorry about your engagement."

Wes's rustling noises pause momentarily. "…right." His tone clearly says _Shut up, I don't want to talk about this anymore._

Travis ignores the tone. "It's totally a shame. I mean, I got you an awesome wedding gift and everything."

"What?" Wes straightens, frowns at him. "No you didn't—wait. _Wait_. Are you—the fucking _silverware?_ That was _you?_ "

Grinning unrepentantly, Travis nods. "It was nice, wasn't it? Only the best for you, baby." The sarcasm is lethal, but it _had_ been a very nice set of silverware.

"You—!" Wes's face is getting mottled red, fists clenching, like a volcano about to erupt. That was one of the things Travis had always found interesting about Wes—the man always seems so calm and collected, but he has a temper underneath it all, and when he lets it out, he _explodes_ and it is _glorious._ God help anyone who gets in his way.

Of course, now _Travis_ is the one it's aimed at and this is totally not the time or place, so he probably should have thought this through a little, but still.

"You _bastard!_ " Wes storms across the room, grabs his collar, and Travis just barely blocks the punch aimed at his face. "You _fucking bastard._ I should have _known_ it was you the second I saw there was no card."

Oh yeah, getting Wes wound up is all _sorts_ of fun. Travis grins. "Chill, man. It's just silverware."

" _Just silverware?_ You _stole_ my silverware, Travis! _Stole it!_ I had to spend forty bucks on a new set!"

"Forty bucks? Wow," Travis whistles. "You know, I bet you could have found it cheaper. Or used a coupon or something."

" _You bastard_. You waltz into my life, steal my silverware, then mock me with it years later! And here you are now, like _nothing happened_ —"

This is going way beyond mere silverware, Travis abruptly realizes. And as much as they probably need to hash all of this out, they really need to find a better venue for this fight.

"Wes, shut up."

"You have _no right_ to tell me—"

" _Shut up_." Travis slaps his hands over Wes's mouth, cutting off the angry ranting. He hisses, "I thought I heard something!"

Abruptly, Wes goes silent and still, Travis's hands still clasped over his mouth. Travis holds his breath, listening intently.

 _There_. A faint scuff at the door, and the sharp sounds of metal scratching metal.

Travis's gaze meets Wes's; both of their eyes are wide.

 _Shit_.

 **XXXX**

"There are no other exits," Wes reports, "not even a drain."

"What the hell?" Travis rants, returning from his own frantic search of the room. Which didn't take long because for all its size, there's not a lot in it. "How can this place _not_ have an emergency exit or something? Isn't that some kind of safety hazard?"

Wes darts a worried glance at the door, where the sounds of people trying to enter has escalated into dull hammering thuds against the steel door. "There's nowhere to hide, either. Not even a closet."

"Shit." They are going to be in _so_ much trouble. "Okay, when they burst in here, play dumb." Wes gives him a look. "Trust me, play dumb. Security can only charge us for trespassing if we don't say anything."

"You would know," Wes mutters, but he sounds more freaked than like he's trying to pick a fight, so Travis lets it slide. He moves up beside the blonde, solidarity in numbers, and faces the door.

The door bursts inward. Almost instantly, Travis knows he's wrong wrong _wrong_ about this one. These guys aren't security; these guys are dressed for battle. Black gear and armor and masks that cover everything but their eyes. And the guns they're carrying _really_ aren't standard issue for rent-a-cops.

Travis has no idea who these guys are, but all of a sudden he wishes he really was getting arrested for trespassing.

The leading masked man stops, gun snapping up, barking, "Who the hell are you?"

Well, playing dumb was the plan with the rent-a-cops. Maybe it will work on these guys.

"Hey, man, I don't know—"

"Grab them," the leader orders before he can finish, and two of the men step forward.

Travis takes a hasty step back, bumping into Wes, who staggers back. There's a tiny little "Oomph!" from the blonde, and the sound of something falling. When he turns, he sees Wes has tripped over the edge of the platform and fallen on top of it.

"Wait!" the leader orders, gun dropping towards the floor. Travis looks between him and the mystery machine and Wes pushing himself upright, and his eyes widen in a sudden flash of insight.

"Oh my god!" Before one of the goons can grab him, Travis takes two steps, hauling Wes up and fully onto the platform. He points accusingly at the leader. "You! You want Paekman's work. You're the people that killed him!"

"What?" Wes squawks, so surprised he doesn't even pull his arm out of Travis's grasp.

The leader glares at him through the mask. "Get down from there."

"Oh, fuck that. This is the only thing keeping you from shooting us." Travis looks at the machine around them, heavy metal panels and a variety of motors and wires. "What could you _possibly_ want all this for?"

"Travis," Wes hisses, low so the goons can't hear, "What are you doing?"

"Distracting them," Travis whispers back. He digs his flashlight out of his pocket, slipping it into Wes's hand without the leader seeing it. "When I give you the signal, throw it at one of the goons and we'll make a break for it."

Without protest, Wes takes it, tucking it behind his wrist. "What's the signal?"

That's another thing he's always liked about Wes. When it comes right down to it, you can count on him.

"Baby," Travis whispers, and turns back to the leader. "Are you here to steal Paekman's research? Cuz that's kind of a dick move, stealing his stuff when he's dead. That's practically grave robbing, don't you think, baby?"

Wes's glare has little effect, because he swings around and flings the flashlight at the nearest goon. The aim is perfect; it hits the guy smack in the eye and sends him reeling back.

Unfortunately, the nearest goon is standing right in front of the computer terminal, and when he tumbles back he falls right into the computer. He hits— _something_ , because all of a sudden the computer is flashing a bunch of blinking lights and the sounds of motors revving up fills the room. Through the open doorway to the hallway, Travis can see the red light above the door start to flash.

 _DO NOT ENTER WHILE LIGHT IS FLASHING_ , the sign on the door had said, and Travis takes that as their cue to leave.

"Come on!" He grabs Wes's hand and heads for the edge of the platform.

Too late. The large panels slide down, locking into place, two layers of silver and steel separating them from the rest of the room. And then the machinery kicks into gear, and the panels start to move, slowly spinning around the platform and picking up speed.

Wes reaches out, like maybe he can stop them or something stupid, then yanks his hand back with a hiss as the panels snap at his fingers. Too fast to stop them, too fast to get out.

"Shit," Travis says. "We are _so_ fucked."

Wes turns to him, eyes widening. "What?"

It's totally not cool, but Travis is panicking a little here. He does the same thing Wes does, reaching out, but it's like sticking his hand into fan blades—except, like, ten hundred times the speed. Travis is a little surprised his fingers aren't actually bleeding. "Man, we are totally gonna get radiated!"

Wes pauses. Blinks. Frowns. "That's not the right word."

"What? Yes it is."

"No, I really don't think it is."

Travis frowns, furrows his brow. "Well, what's the word for being bombarded with radiation?"

" _Ir_ radiated."

"How is that _any_ different than what I said?"

Wes glares at him. Travis throws up his hands and gives in. " _Fine_. We're totally gonna get _ir_ radiated!"

The panels have sped up so much that the seams are invisible, a sheer silver tube surrounding them. Sparks have started flashing across the metal, sunflower gold and electric blue, energy building up inside the spinning machine.

"Oh man, oh man, we are _fucked_ ," Travis moans.

"What are you _talking_ about?" Wes shouts. Not because he's pissed or scared, though he's probably a little of both, because Travis totally is. No, he's shouting to be heard, because the hum of the machine is getting louder the faster the machine spins.

"You don't watch a lot of sci-fi, do you?" Travis hollers back. Wes gives him a look, one that very clearly reads _Are you fucking kidding me what are you fucking talking about you are making no sense._ This is a very familiar look of Wes's.

Travis has to lean close now to be heard. "In sci-fi, when people get stuck in mysterious experimental machines that start spinning, they get bombarded with weird energy and start growing, like, horns and third eyes and shit." He flings horrified hands up to his face. "Wes! Am I growing a third eye?!"

Wes shouts something, but Travis can't hear it. He wonders if Wes heard anything _he_ said either.

The energy is so thick, he can barely see the spinning panels anymore. He has no idea what's happening outside the walls. It's strange, though. The energy seems to be spinning just as fast as the walls, flashing around them in a tornado of light, but it's not mixing into green. In the midst of freaking the fuck out, _that's_ what stands out to him.

 _Paekman_ , he wonders, _what were you working on?_

Wes flails his hands, mouth moving, and Travis can't hear what he's shouting but he can pretty accurately guess. _This is all your fault, you told me to throw the stupid penlight, I'm sorry for all the hurtful words I've said over the years._

Well. That last one might be wishful thinking, but they're very probably about to die from irradiation, so Travis is allowed his little fantasies.

He holds out his hand, reaching for Wes, and their eyes meet. The terror in Wes's gaze is only matched by the fear Travis feels curdling his stomach.

Wes reaches out, but he never makes it.

 **XXXX**

Within the machine, the energy builds up, a unique form composed of two opposing yet equal forces. What Wes and Travis don't know is that whenever David Paek tested this machine, the energy would build up, reach a certain point, and then collapse harmlessly back to an inert state. He never could get it to do what he wanted it to.

With the introduction of two foreign bodies into the machine, the energy does not collapse, and it does not dissipate. It continues to build, careening around the small chamber, rocketing around the two men inside.

Rocketing _through_ them. The energy builds to a blinding whirl, and Wes and Travis are torn apart, down to their very atoms, then reassembled, all in the space of a blink, so quickly they don't even notice. But in that blink, the energy passes _through_ them, tearing apart the old bonds and creating new ones.

In an instant, Travis and Wes are _remade_.

The energy stills. Though the panels still spin beyond, within the chamber it is silent and still. Hands still outstretched, Travis and Wes lock eyes, a thousand things passing wordlessly between them.

The world goes supernova.

 **XXXX**

 **Back In The Day**

"You know," Wes sighs, draping himself across Travis's chest, "this really isn't how things were supposed to go."

Travis drowses, basking in the afterglow, and makes a vague noise to show Wes he hasn't fallen asleep and is totally listening, no really.

"I was supposed to join a large firm," Wes continues, "find a nice girl to marry—preferably a successful lawyer—and be partner before I was thirty. Instead, I ended up with an ex-con artist who has a penchant for getting into trouble, and who is also male."

Travis's eyes crack open at that last, and he frowns at the top of Wes's head. " _Also_ male? That's not the part you're focused on?"

Wes shifts, props his chin on his folded arms and blinks languidly at him. "I think if you were a successful lawyer, my parents would eventually overlook your man bits."

"You love my man bits and you know it."

Wes does that adorable crinkly thing with his nose and smacks him. Travis pretends it hurts more than it actually does.

"What about you?" Wes asks. "Did you ever have any plans for your life?"

This is the part where Travis says something flippant and snarky, deflecting the question away from all the things he'll never have.

Instead, he stares at the ceiling above him, and because it's Wes, he admits, "I wanted to be a cop when I was little. A detective." He lets a small, sad smile creep into the corners of his mouth. "Detective Travis Marks. Has a nice ring, doesn't it?"

Wes doesn't say anything for a long time, processing. "What happened?" he asks, softly, gently, like he's afraid of pushing too hard.

Sighing, Travis wraps an arm around Wes's shoulders, relishing in the contact, in the warm press of skin grounding him from painful memories. "I don't know. I got in trouble. Got arrested. Got in more trouble. Eventually it was just…too late. No turning back."

Normally, this is the part where Travis would expect pity for everything that went wrong that ended him where he is, or derision for all the bad choices he made that led him here. Wes, being Wes, silently takes this in, and then shifts the conversation a little, so it's not as painful.

"Why a cop?" he muses. No recrimination or pity. Just mild curiosity.

That's one of the things he adores about Wes.

The smile he makes this time is bittersweet, and he closes his eyes again. "I always wanted to be a superhero. Being a cop, that was the closest I could find."

 **XXXX**

 **Now**

Wes feels…fuzzy. It reminds him of college, when he stayed up too many nights in a row working on papers, living off of coffee and processed sugar, and then Travis came and pushed a beer into his hands, lips quirking up in a grin, and he said, "You need to relax, baby," and the booze hit too fast too hard on a near-empty stomach and Wes felt like he was disintegrating a little.

It's kind of like that, but not really.

Wes sighs softly, snuggling against Travis's chest. He doesn't need to open his eyes to know it's Travis—he knows Travis's body as well as he knows his own, sharp planes and gentle angles and the spicy-smooth scent of his skin that can both calm and arouse Wes like no other. God, he's missed this.

"Hey baby," Travis mumbles thickly, clumsily stroking his shoulder, and Wes feels a sleepy smile crossing his face. He won't admit it, but he _has_ missed this, the casual intimacy of being with someone, of being with _Travis_ , and he shifts, wrapping his arm around Travis's waist to pull him closer—

Something metal hits metal with a happy little 'klung!' Wes feels in his bones, and the fuzziness disappears.

Wes's eyes snap open.

He's lying in a pile of rubble that had once been PC Labs, a massive swath of destruction that no one should have survived.

That's not the first thing he notices.

The first thing he notices is that he's 100% buck naked, not a stitch of clothing on. There's a thick metal gauntlet-type thing on his left arm, but he barely gives that a passing glance because something much more pressing has come to his attention.

Travis is just as naked as he is.

"No!" Wes leaps to his feet, putting a good yard of distance between them. "No, no, no! I have a rule about this!"

Travis, who knows all about Wes's rules, sits up with a wary, disgruntled expression. "Which rule is this?"

"It's a new one. About never ever getting naked with you. _Ever_."

"Harsh." Travis climbs to his feet, poking a piece of golf-ball-sized rubble with his toe. "Any idea _why_ we're naked together?"

" _Obviously_ our clothes were vaporized in the _explosion_ that _leveled the building!_ "

Travis's face shifts from annoyance to concern. He crosses the space between them and cups Wes's face in his (warm familiar comforting) hands. "Wes, baby, you gotta breathe."

Wes is dimly aware that he's freaking the fuck out. Under the circumstances, he thinks he's justified. "We were in the middle of an explosion! So either I'm dead and this is my own personal hell, which wouldn't surprise me at _all_ , or _something is very wrong!"_

"I know, okay, I know, and we will figure it out, but right now you gotta calm down and _breathe_ for me, Wes."

Travis is probably just as freaked out as Wes, but he's not showing it because Travis is an _asshole_ who doesn't show any emotions and dammit, Wes is kind of grateful for it. _One_ of them needs to think rationally right now.

Then he hears the sirens (because _duh_ , explosions), and he calms down a little. The police are here. They'll take care of everything.

That's when Travis goes, "Oh, fuck."

 **XXXX**

This is how Wes knows his life has gone to shit: He's crouched naked behind a pile of rubble, arguing with his ex about whether they should reveal themselves to the police or not.

"Absolutely _not_ ," Travis snaps, "They will shoot you in the face!"

"What? Why? We've done nothing wrong!"

"So?" Travis peeks around the edge of the rubble pile, ducking back so quickly Wes is certain he didn't see anything of value. "We're the only survivors of a massive explosion. Innocence has nothing to do with it."

The full meaning of Travis's words sinks in, and Wes feels like hyperventilating again. "You mean they think _we_ did this?"

Now that he thinks about it, there's an awful lot of shouting about coming out with your hands up. That probably should have been a clue.

"I can't be a bombing suspect, Travis! I have a life and a job and a reputation that won't handle this!"

Travis ignores him. "If only we could come up with some sort of distraction, we could slip away…"

Sneaking away is a surefire sign of guilt. "We just need to explain it to them." Cops are reasonable people. Wes has worked with enough of them to know. If they explain what happened, they might get hit with a trespassing charge or two, but the police will see the explosion wasn't their fault and everything will be fine.

He takes a breath, braces himself. "We just need to explain it to them," he repeats.

Travis looks at him in alarm. "Wes, what're you—"

Wes steps out into the open, hands in front of him. "Officers, I can explain—"

Someone opens fire.

 **XXXX**

"Wes!"

Travis has had nightmares about this. Wes going down in a spray of bullets, jerking like a puppet before falling, bloody and gone and all Travis's fault. The cry he makes is anguished, grieving before the first bullet hits, and he closes his eyes because he doesn't want to watch this. Then he opens his eyes, because Wes deserves better than to die with no one watching.

The bullets don't hit. Wes lets out a frightened shout, throwing his arms up over his head, and this, like, _bubble_ pops up, glowing bright neon blue and _deflecting the bullets away holy fuck_.

Wes ducks behind the rubble, looking more pissed than freaked. "What the hell? They can't just start shooting!"

"They kind of can," Travis says absently. The glowing shield is gone now, like it was never there. "How did you do that?"

Wes shoots him a more venomous version of his _Travis you're not making sense you dumbass_ look. "Do what? Hey!" He squawks as Travis grabs his hands. "No touching!"

"Another rule of yours, I suppose?" He only got a glimpse before Wes yanked his hands back, but Travis didn't notice anything different. Nothing that would indicate Wes can create energy shields, at least.

In fact, the only thing strange about Wes, aside from the naked-in-rubble thing, is the metal gauntlet on his forearm. Now, maybe Wes is trying something new, jewelry-wise, except Travis has an identical gauntlet on his arm, and he _know_ he's never owned anything like this before.

Ignoring Wes's fresh freakout (or maybe it's the same one continued, Travis can't tell anymore), Travis studies the gauntlet. It's made of some shifting silver metal, like mercury, except it's totally solid when he touches it. And it's seamless, molded perfectly to his arm; he'd have to cut off his hand to get it off.

Somehow, Travis doesn't know how, these gauntlets are the cause.

"Sorry about this," he says, and before Wes can question it, Travis shoves him out into the open again. Wes screams curses at him, bullets start flying again, and that blue bubble forms, perfectly encapsulating Wes.

Wes sees it this time, freezing in shock. Travis looks down at the gauntlet on his arm, and he feels a grin cross his face.

"Cool."

 **XXXX**

Throwing his arms up doesn't do anything. Travis frowns. "Come on, I gotta have a power too." Wes is still frozen, bullets pinging off the shield, and they're running out of time. Travis starts throwing his hands around.

Finger guns get a reaction. A stream of golden-orange light shoots from his fingertips, scoring a patch through the nearest stretch of rubble, and holy fuck _Travis can shoot lazer beams._

Utterly aware that his grin is totally inappropriate for the current situation, Travis leaps from hiding and plasters himself to Wes's back. "Don't drop your arms, baby!"

"Travis?!" The blonde turns to glare at him. "I have a rule about this!"

"Just a minute and I'll be off." Travis sticks his arm over Wes's shoulder, aiming, and makes a gun with his hands. "Pow!" he whoops, golden light firing from his fingertips. His aim holds true; the light hits the side of a cop car and _makes it explode this is the coolest thing ever_.

"Travis!" Wes shrieks without dropping his arms. "This will not keep them from thinking we're terrorists!"

"Get ready to run!" Travis aims again. Another cop car goes up in flames. "Now!"

Travis grabs Wes's hand and makes a break for it, leaving flames and destruction in their wake.

 **XXXX**

 **Back In The Day**

"We're going to get in trouble!" Wes hisses, shoving at Travis's shoulders. Travis barely moves, clinging like a leech with his lips locked to Wes's neck.

"Travis!" Wes snaps again, jabbing his boyfriend.

"Ow! Jesus, you have harpy claws on your hands." Travis rubs his shoulder, adopting a wounded expression that doesn't fool Wes one bit. He pokes Travis again.

"We are _going_ to get _caught_."

Travis smirks and pushes him up against the tree, fingers roaming down towards Wes's pants. "We're only gonna get caught if you don't shut up." He rucks Wes's shirt up, grinning ear to ear, and unbuttons Wes's pants. "You want me to stop, you just tell me."

"I'm going to get caught and they will put a black mark on my record and I will forever be known as the guy who had a quickie on the green," Wes moans. But he doesn't say no.

Travis's grin widens, and he attaches to Wes's neck once more. "That's the spirit."

Most of the bad ideas Wes gets caught up in seem to be Travis's, so when campus security strolls by and starts shouting at them, he blames Travis. "This is all your fault!"

"You could have said no!" Travis grabs his hand and gives him a daring, devil-may-care grin. "Now, let's run!"

Hand in hand, they flee, laughing into the night.

 **XXXX**

 **Now**

It's a picture of the three of them, Travis and Wes standing side by side and Paekman popping up between them, his hands on both of their shoulders. All three of them have matching grins on their faces, and looking at the photo, Wes finds himself unexpectedly jealous. These guys, these versions of themselves seven years ago, they're young and happy and the future is wide open to them.

How sad, that Wes is jealous of his past self, simply because he can't picture himself that happy anymore. Sometimes, that period in college feels like nothing more than a dream.

"Hey, Wes, be honest, how many of these hair products do you _really_ need?"

Wes slaps the photo facedown on the bed, glaring at the face in the doorway. "Don't touch my stuff."

"Time is of the essence, baby, we gotta get moving. So, hair products?"

Wes grits his teeth, takes a deep breath, and reminds himself that killing Travis will only get him in more trouble. "The blue bottle," he says through clenched teeth. "I can leave everything else."

"Gotcha." Travis gives him a thumbs up and disappears from the doorway.

Wes looks at the photo and sighs, climbing to his feet.

After running from the ruins of the labs, Travis found them clothes; Wes didn't ask where or how, and his usual protests about wearing other people's clothing were overridden by his need to have something on. As soon as he'd gotten home, though, he'd stripped and changed into his own clothes. It didn't make him feel much better, but it helped.

And now he needs to be packing so he can go on the run. They'd had a long, heated argument about that, before Travis finally said, "Look, Wes, they're gonna figure out we were at the labs sooner or later. And now the labs are nothing more than rock and dust. You can let them lock you away and question you about something you didn't do—not that they'll believe that, since we were the only survivors of something we shouldn't have survived. _Or_ you can go into hiding for a while, figure out what the hell is going on, help me find the guys who killed Paekman, and clear your name. The choice is up to you."

Put like that, there really isn't much of a choice. If Wes hadn't seen it himself, he never would have believed in force fields and energy beams that can take out cop cars.

Even if the police do believe he had nothing to do with Paekman's death or the explosion, this new ability of his would earn him a position as a lab rat in some government lab for the rest of his life.

Experimentally, Wes raises his arms in front of him. A neon blue bubble forms in front of him, clear enough to see through but, as he knows, strong enough to deflect bullets.

"What were you working on, Paekman?" he whispers, but his friend is no longer there to answer.

Wes sighs and starts packing. It takes him fifteen minutes to get everything he thinks he'll need. At the last second, he grabs the photo from the bed, slipping it into a frame, behind a picture of Alex that sits on his dresser.

He's tucking the frame into his bag when he emerges from his room to find Travis in the kitchen, rummaging through his cupboards. He's reaching that point of shock where he can't even bother getting upset. He just blinks, zips his bag, and asks, "What are you doing?"

"Stocking up on provisions," Travis says, tossing a box of power bars into a bag on the counter. "Kudos to you for being so healthy, man, but canned and processed foods are better on the run. Last longer. We're gonna need to make a grocery run."

"Do we have a plan?"

"Sure." Travis tosses one more thing into the bag and gathers it all up. "We're gonna go to my place. It's off the grid and no one will connect us to it. We're gonna eat, we're gonna sleep for about ten hours, and in the morning we're gonna figure this all out."

A part of Wes can't help thinking that none of this would have happened if Travis hadn't come back into his life. But he knows that's not quite true—whatever was going on with Paekman started long before Travis returned.

"Here." Travis tosses a small black toiletries bag his direction. He catches it and shoves it into his duffel without checking it over. "We're got everything we can use right now. Let's go."

With little other option, Wes follows him out the door.

 **XXXX**

Travis's place is a tiny little loft on the shady side of town, rented under an alias the cops don't know about. He expects some derogatory comment from Wes, but the blonde just wrinkles his nose and asks where the bathroom is. A few minutes later, Travis hears the shower start up.

Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, Travis can feel himself lagging, grey creeping into his vision. This was _not_ how he expected his weekend to go. He was planning to swing by the funeral, say hi to Wes (and dodge the punches he knew were coming) and head right back out of town.

Instead, he's already been questioned in his friend's murder, he was involved with an explosion, and he's on the run with a man who hates his guts. Oh yeah, and he somehow has superpowers.

It seems pretty safe to say he's well and truly fucked.

By the time Wes gets out of the shower, Travis has already put the food away, wiped off the worst of the dust and grime with a wet washcloth, and crawled into bed. He can hear Wes hesitate, a tangible pause in the quiet room.

"Travis?"

"Don't have a couch," he mumbles into his pillow. "It's either this or the floor. Promise to keep my hands to myself."

There's a long moment of indecision, long enough Travis almost drops off right there. Then the bed dips, and Wes pulls the covers over himself.

Travis chances one quick glance over his shoulder and finds Wes's back to him, curled up on the far side of the bed. He was expecting it. It still hurts.

Sighing, Travis rolls back over and stares at the far wall.

Despite how tired he is, it takes him a long time to get to sleep.

 **XXXX**

 **Back In The Day**

It's rare that Travis wakes up before Wes, because Wes gets up obnoxiously early for his morning run and Travis likes sleep. But Wes crashed after his finals last night and Travis turned off the alarm, so he has the rare privilege of seeing Wes dead to the world.

Like always, Wes ended up wrapped around him during the night, a blonde octopus. Wes always sputters indignantly and says he's _not_ an octopus, it's simple a way to preserve warmth, to which Travis snickers and says _That's what blankets are for, baby. Admit it, you just like cuddling with me._

He smiles softly, running his fingers through soft blonde locks. Wes sighs gently, arm tightening, nuzzling into Travis's shoulder. He doesn't open his eyes.

Travis can feel the smile on his face growing increasingly sappy and fond. He tucks Wes close and closes his eyes, relishing the warmth at his side.

 _I am_ , he thinks, _the luckiest guy in the world._

 **XXXX**

 **Now**

Wes wakes up warm and snug, a familiar sensation be knows he shouldn't be feeling. Sure enough, when he opens his eyes, he's visually greeted with a thin cotton shirt and a stretch of chocolate-brown skin.

Carefully, Wes extracts himself from Travis, moving slowly so he doesn't wake him.

He sits up on the edge of the bed, looking around the room and definitely not at the man in the bed behind him. The loft is a big empty space, utterly impersonal—the only sign of occupation is their bags on the floor.

If Travis up and left tomorrow, there'd be no sign he was ever here. Maybe that's just the way Travis likes it—he never did appreciate being tied down. But it just reminds Wes of too many things he can't let himself wish for. The memories just ache.

He exhales and rubs his hands over his face, pushing it all down. He's good at that.

"Damn it, Travis," he mutters without heat, and gets up to make breakfast.

 **XXXX**

Travis wakes to a cold bed and the sound of crunching. When he opens his eyes and rolls over, he can see Wes sitting at the tiny, two-person table, reading a newspaper with a bowl of cereal in his hand.

For a second, it's just like Travis remembers; Wes up and ready for the day, and Travis watching without him knowing.

So of course he has to go and ruin the moment. "Did you go out?"

Wes doesn't look his way. "Yes," he says flatly, turning to the next page of the paper.

Travis pushes himself upright. "What part of 'going on the run' didn't you understand? Oh god, you didn't use a credit card, did you?"

Wes shoots him a nasty glower. "Yes, Travis, because I'm _completely_ stupid. Give me some credit here." He sets the bowl down, rolls up the paper, and tosses it at the bed. "I wanted to see if they had anything about last night. They don't—probably too late to make the morning edition. I can't say anything about the news channels."

Travis quickly flips through the paper, but Wes is right, there's no mention of the lab explosion. "I, uh, don't have a TV," he says absently.

"I noticed."

If words contained poison, Travis would already be frothing at the mouth from Wes's. He rubs his forehead, feeling a headache coming on. This is gonna be _fun_.

"I'm going to take a shower and drink about a gallon of coffee. Then we'll figure out our next plan of attack."

"Have at it," Wes mutters, waving a hand that's just shy of flipping him off.

"I've missed you," Travis says insincerely, which _does_ earn him the middle finger. Travis huffs a laugh through his nose and heads to the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, he's clean and ready to take on the day. Wes is still sitting at the table, his dishes put away and the newspaper neatly folded beside him. (The bed has also been made, but Travis knows better than to comment on Wes's nervous habits.) He pours himself some cereal—cornflakes, not even frosted, oh boy—and sits in the other chair.

Wes is looking down at a framed photo, gaze distant. The picture is Wes and a pretty, dark-haired woman with blue eyes, smiling serenely at the camera. They look happy.

"She's pretty," he comments neutrally. "A friend?"

"Alex," Wes murmurs, and his voice is so unbearably fond it sends a sharp pang through Travis's chest.

"You went on the run, but you just _had_ to have a picture of your girl, huh? Nice."

Wes's gaze sharpens, focuses, and his hands tighten on the wooden frame. "This frame holds the most important picture I've got," he snaps, setting it facedown beside him. The glare he levels at Travis is truly lethal. "I wasn't going to leave it behind."

Another pang shoots through Travis like a bullet. He grins and leans back and doesn't show anything on his face. "Hey, I'm not complaining. She's pretty."

Wes looks about three seconds from jumping across the table and throttling him. Travis does in fact have _some_ self-preservation instincts, and he quickly says, "We need a plan."

Reluctantly, Wes settles, though his glower doesn't abate. "I made a list," he declares, picking up a piece of paper that was hiding beneath the newspaper.

"Of course you did."

"Shut up. We need to figure out what we know to plan what we're going to do."

Okay, Wes kind of has a point. Travis starts chowing down on his cereal. "I'm with you, go on."

"Swallow before you talk, dammit." Wes looks down at the list in his hands. "Okay. First off: Paekman died in a car crash. It was ruled an accident, but something must have made the cops think differently."

"Second," Travis interjects, "the cops think I had something to do with it."

"That's hardly one-and-a-half," Wes scoffs, hurrying on before Travis can come up with a witty retort. " _Second_ : Paekman was working on something called the Enigma Project. Maybe that was what got him killed."

"Third," Travis says, "the Enigma Project gave us superpowers."

Wes scowls at the gauntlet on his forearm. "Fourth, PC Labs blew up last night, possibly as a result of us getting our…superpowers." He says that last word distastefully, which doesn't make sense because superpowers are the _coolest_.

"Fifth, the cops by now no doubt think we are the ones who blew up the labs—as such, they almost certainly think we had something to do with Paekman's death."

Travis seems to be handling that last bit better than Wes. But then, he's been accused of all sorts of things he never actually did, so this is pretty par for the course. Wes has probably never even gotten a parking ticket before.

"And sixth," Wes finishes, "We know there were men at the labs who wanted Paekman's work—"

"Specifically, the one that gave us superpowers."

"—but they almost certainly all died in the explosion last night, so we can't ask them anything."

They sit in silence for a long minute.

"We're fucked," Travis concludes.

"Little bit." Wes taps the last item on the list, frowning thoughtfully. "We need to figure out who these men were."

"Yeah, sure, let me grab my Ouija board. They're _dead_ , remember? And we don't have any clues. We don't even know where to start."

"Well." Wes smirks, leaning back smugly. "That's not exactly true."

Travis narrows his eyes. "What do you have in mind?"

 **XXXX**

"My contact is a little…odd," Wes says when they get to the apartment building.

"Contact?" Travis perks up in interest. "You have contacts?"

"Mostly just the one," Wes admits. Travis probably has a dozen contacts for every not-so-legal escapade he can think of, but none of them can help right now. Wes takes some pride in that.

"Anyway, she's a little strange, so let me do the talking, alright?"

Travis's eyebrows go up a little, and he waves Wes in front of him. "Go for it, man."

Wes takes the lead. The apartment building is a sleek, twenty-story glass and steel construction. The lobby is done in black and white and chrome, very modern in design.

"This looks like an office building," Travis mutters in a hushed voice. Wes understands—there's a solemn, impersonal feeling to this place. It doesn't condone lingering.

"That's the point," Wes tells him without elaboration. He guides Travis across the lobby, steps echoing in the tiled, vaulted room. Travis pauses in front of the elevators; Wes doesn't slow, moving past, and Travis hurries to catch up with him.

Their goal is a small white door in the back corner of the building, tucked away behind the elevators. A matte silver plaque says, "Maintenance."

"What the hell?" Travis asks.

"You'll see," Wes assures him, pulling out his key ring. He unlocks the door, ushering Travis inside. The door locks behind him.

Inside the small room there is a steel door with a keypad beside it. Travis blinks, staring at the cheery, sunflower-patterned doormat in front of the door.

"What the hell?" he asks again.

"I told you she's a little odd," Wes says, and presses the intercom button above the keypad.

There's a whir from the camera above the door, focusing on them, and then a brisk female voice says, "Wes Mitchell, what do you want?"

It's blunt and unfriendly, and with anyone else, Wes would get offended. Now, though, he half-smiles into the camera and says, "I need your help, Kendall."

Travis coughs lightly into his fist.

" _We_ need your help."

The camera whirrs again, and her voice comes back, tight with suspicion. "Did you blow up that building, Wes?"

He feels Travis stiffen behind him, but he's not surprised she knows. This is the riskiest part—if she doesn't believe him, she could easily have the police here before they can even make it out of the building.

He takes a breath, looks straight into the camera lens, and says, "No."

There's a long pause. Wes isn't sure Travis is breathing; he _knows_ he's not.

Then, bright and chipper, Kendall says, "Good enough for me!" and the door unlocks.

Wes grips the door handle and leads the way in.

 **XXXX**

Travis's first impression of Wes's contact is that she's awfully energetic. She bounces out of a doorway, a five-foot-nothing redhead in jeans and a pastel blue cardigan, and comes right up to Wes and _hugs him_. Travis is not jealous at all.

"Wes!" she chirps, "You never come by!"

"Sorry, Ken," he tells her, and he's _hugging her back_ the traitor. "I've been busy with work."

"That's what men always say." She pulls back, sees Travis, and brightens, releasing Wes and barreling towards him with her hand outstretched. "And you! Travis Marks! It's nice to finally meet you!"

Travis takes her hand, eyebrows going up as he looks at Wes. "You talk about me to her?" He's a little…well, flattered probably isn't the right word, since anything Wes said was probably derogatory and not nice at all, but it's probably something similar.

Wes gives him his _Are you stupid?_ face. "Don't be stupid, Travis, of course I didn't. Kendall knows everything."

"It's true, I do." She releases Travis's hand and heads for the doorway she'd appeared out of. "Come, come in, sit down and you can tell me what you want. Do you want anything? I have coffee, soda, water…?"

"Water would be fine," Wes says easily, following her like it's an everyday thing, getting affectionately assaulted by little redheaded bombshells with too much energy even though everyone _knows_ Wes has personal space issues and isn't all that fond of being touched or hugged or even stood too close next to.

Travis shoves his hands in his pockets and squashes down all the annoyed, jealous feelings running around in confused tangles inside him. "Soda, please," he calls to Kendall, and then, lower, to Wes: "What are we doing here?"

"You'll _see_ , sit down and shut up," Wes snaps, and he takes a seat on the left side of the leather couch. Travis, who is not actually stupid and knows better, sits at the opposite end of the couch, tucked up by the arm to put as much distance as possible between them.

Kendall returns with a glass of water for Wes and a bottle of Coke for Travis and plops into the matching leather armchair. "So," she says, steepling her fingers in front of her. "What can I do for you?"

Wes launches into an explanation about _everything_ , from Paekman's death to the explosion last night to the accidental superpowers. Travis sits back and sips his soda, letting Wes lead like he said he would, and looks around the room.

Honestly, it looks like any other living room he's been in. There're magazines on the coffee table and framed art prints on the wall and a TV angled so everyone seated could see it, if it was on. He can see a little dining nook, a table covered in papers and two bright red plastic chairs, and the edge of what is probably the kitchen counter.

It's a completely normal living room, and Travis has no idea why they're here.

"What exactly do you want me to do?" Kendall asks, drawing Travis's attention back to the conversation.

Wes sets his glass down and leans forward, down to business now. "The men from last night were looking for something. I don't know what. But I'm hoping the assault on the labs wasn't their first crack at it."

"Ah." She leans forward as well, mimicking Wes's pose. "So you want me to see if they contacted your friend before he died, maybe tried to…get him to sell his work, or something."

"That's right. Anything that might lead us to these guys."

"I see." Kendall leans back, tapping her fingers together and staring speculatively at Wes. "And what are you going to do when you find these guys?"

Wes hesitates, and Travis sees his chance and jumps in. "We haven't exactly figured that out yet. But we do have superpowers, so, you know, it's probably going to be awesome."

"Hmm." Her gaze moves between them. "Superpowers, you say…"

That's an invitation if Travis ever heard one, and normally he'd jump all over the chance to show off. Wes's power is much less destructive, though, and they're trying to get her to help them, not get pissed and kick them out because Travis blew a hole in her wall. He looks at Wes.

Wes rolls his eyes, but obligingly sticks up his arms. On cue, the bright blue shield pops up.

Kendall's eyes go wide. "Oh, wow." She leans over the table, poking at it. "Oh, this is so cool." She picks up one of the magazines from the table, rips off the front cover, and wads it into a ball. It bounces harmlessly off the shield. "Oh man, this is _awesome._ " Looking like Christmas has come early, she turns to Travis. "What can you do?"

"I blow shit up," he grins, feeling the same awe bubbling up in his chest. Because yeah, being on the run is no fun, and there are very possibly armed men out there looking for them, but dammit, he has _superpowers_. That's the coolest thing in the world.

"So will you help us?" Wes asks, dropping his arms. The force shield disappears, and Kendall looks a little disappointed. Travis totally understands.

"Are you kidding? This is amazing. Of _course_ I'll help you!" On a mission now, Kendall rises to her feet and strides into the hallway. "Well, come on, don't sit there forever!"

Biting back a smile, Travis follows her down the hall, Wes only a second behind.

 **XXXX**

"So how do you know this girl?" Travis asks halfway down the hall, when Kendall isn't quite out of earshot.

"Work," Wes replies. "Kendall is the best digital forensic technician in the greater LA area. She got involved in a case I was working on, and…long story short, we became friends, and she offered her services if I ever needed help."

"Services," Travis says slowly, "Like what?"

"You'll see." Travis is probably getting annoyed by the mystery. Wes just likes pissing him off.

Kendall leads them into a small home office, consisting of one chair, one desk, and a desktop computer. She doesn't stop at the computer, though—no, she moves through the room and pulls open the closet doors, revealing a tiny space packed with office supplies. "In, in," she ushers, and it's a tight squeeze but they all manage.

"What—" Travis starts to say, and then the walls shudder and the entire _room_ starts to move.

Wes, who knew what was coming, gets to see Travis's face go from confused to puzzled to absolutely astounded.

The tiny elevator jolts to a stop, and they pile out. They step into a sort of break room area with couches and chairs and a little kitchenette type thing, but Kendall heads for the open doorway at the end of the room and Wes follows, Travis tight on his heels.

The space they emerge into is like every computer mecca in every cyberpunk movie ever—dim lights with half a dozen monitors on one wall and racks of servers and wires and Wes doesn't even know what else. He's a lawyer, not a computer guy.

Travis stops dead, jaw hanging open. "What the—" He turns to gape at Wes. "Are you telling me she's got a _secret lair_ in her office closet? _How?_ "

Wes shrugs, enjoying the flabbergasted look on the other man's face. "She owns the building, so she can do pretty much whatever she wants."

"She _owns the building_? How? She's like, twelve!"

"I've learned it's better not to ask." Wes is pretty sure she acquired her wealth through not-so-legal means. He's also pretty sure 'hacking' would be a better way to describe what she does than 'digital forensics'. That bothers him less than it probably should.

"Have a seat," Kendall calls, waving a hand over her should. She's already seated in front of the computers, typing away. "This should only take a few minutes."

The only place to sit in the main room is the computer chair Kendall is currently sitting in. Wes and Travis exchange a look, then linger awkwardly where they are and don't say anything.

In less than five minutes, Kendall claps her hands on the edge of her keyboard. "Alright alright, I think I got something. Check it out." They move up behind chair, and she points at her screen, which shows several emails. "So your friend, it looks like he was contacted by this guy, Derek Henry. Henry apparently works for, and I quote, 'a group of people interested in the research being done,' and wanted to…either talk about it or buy it, he's pretty vague on that. Anyway, your friend politely turned him down, which didn't stop Henry from contacting him several more times."

"So what?" Travis leans forward, staring at the screen for clues. "I bet Paekman got all kinds of people wanting to know about his work."

"Ah, but what's interesting about Derek Henry is that, according to the public record, he's been out of a job for over a year."

Wes and Travis meet each other's eyes.

"Can you figure out who these 'interested people' are that Henry is working for?" Wes asks.

"Sure, but it'll take me a bit longer than five minutes." Kendall cranes her neck, looking up at them. "What are you guys gonna do?"

The grin Travis makes is positively lethal. "I think we're going to have a little chat with Derek Henry."

 **XXXX**

 **Back In The Day**

"What do you want to be at the Halloween party?" Travis asks, running his finger down Wes's chest.

Wes, who is feeling sated and warm and a little bit sleepy, blinks lazily at the ceiling fan. "What?"

"The Halloween party. I can't decide if you're one of those people who would want to do something couples-matchy, because you're unexpectedly romantic sometimes, and other times it just sort of goes right past you."

Wes rolls over and stares at Travis. "What? What are you talking about?"

"The _Halloween party_ , Wes." Travis squints his eyes and purses his lips. "I'm seeing you don't know about the Halloween party, because you live under a rock. So. Wes, we're going to a Halloween party. What do you want to be?"

"I don't like parties."

"I know. That's okay, baby. We're going anyway." Travis gives him an encouraging grin. "We can slip out and avoid social interaction for a few minutes every, oh, say, half hour or so."

"I haven't dressed up in a costume since I was ten."

"Luckily for you, it's nothing like riding a bike. There's no _actual_ skill involved." Travis grins and claps his hand on Wes's shoulder. It lingers there, thumb sweeping in short arcs over his skin. "Don't you worry. I'll come up with _awesome_ costumes for us."

Wes just frowns. "That's kind of what I'm afraid of."

 **XXXX**

 **Now**

Kendall gives them Derek Henry's address and promises to call if she finds anything. They head out, using back roads and avoiding any cops they see. Aside from whispered instructions, they don't talk much.

Henry isn't home. They find a good place to wait, in sight of the apartment but out of the way. They continue to avoid talking, until Travis says, "Hey, Wes."

Wes glances over and is met with a shit-eating grin, the kind that never bodes well.

Then Travis says, "I have an idea."

 **XXXX**

At seven twenty-three, Derek Henry walks into his apartment. He turns on the lights, tosses his keys on the entry table, and goes to take off his jacket.

He doesn't get the chance. The living room window explodes inward, and a man in a dark blue and gold mask bursts inside.

Derek Henry turns to run out the front door, but the door is kicked open, smashing him in the nose. He staggers back, dazed, and a second figure in a suit strolls inside, clucking his tongue disapprovingly. "Can't get away that easy," he chides, shepherding Henry into the living room.

The two intruders pause, looking each other over. Then the man in the mask points accusingly, and Wes shouts, "You bastard!"

Travis grins and holds his hands out, presenting himself for approval. "What do you think?"

Travis is in a navy blue suit, the jacket hanging open, with a bright gold shirt underneath. He's wearing white sneakers, wraparound sunglasses, and he's got the sleeves of the suit rolled up, showing off the metal gauntlet on his arm.

Wes, in comparison, is wearing body armor, a dark blue spandex suit with gold accents, and a blue-and-gold mask that covers everything but his eyes.

"You said we were going to wear costumes!" he snarls. "You said superhero teams needed matching costumes!"

Travis had had a similar outfit to Wes, only with the colors reversed—gold where Wes's was blue, and vice versa.

"Yeah…about that…" Travis fidgets, rubbing the back of his neck. "I had the costume on, I did! And then I realized it looked _really stupid_ , so I changed." He does the ta-dah motion again. "But I kept the colors going, so it's all good."

"It is _not_ all good. What about secret identities? You said we had to protect our secret identities."

"Yeah…" Travis bites his lip, pushes his glasses up his forehead. "But that costume's _really_ stupid, man."

" _It was your idea._ "

Derek Henry takes their distraction as a chance to escape, bolting for the front door. Wes throws up his hand, and Henry slams into a blue force field that knocks him to the ground.

"You're not going anywhere." Wes points at Travis once more. "Don't think this is the end."

"Yeah, yeah." Travis strides forward, hooking an arm around Henry's throat and dragging him back inside the apartment. "Where ya goin', buddy?"

"Who are you?" Henry gasps, struggling weakly. "What do you want?"

"We just want to talk," Travis chirps, bright with false friendliness. "And you're going to tell us _everything_."

He's smiling, but there's nothing genial about his expression.

Derek Henry goes pale.

 **XXXX**

With Henry tied to a chair, Travis takes the lead with the questioning. He puts his hands on his hips and leans forward menacingly.

"Do you know David Paek?" he asks.

The man in the chair juts his jaw out stubbornly. "No."

Travis lashes out, almost casually, his fist rocking Henry's head to the side. Ignoring Wes's startled protest, he shakes his head sadly. "Not a good start, Henry, lying to us. We have your emails. We _know_ you were in contact with Paek." He flexes his fingers, pacing jauntily in front of the bound man. "Let's try an easy one. What did you want his work for?"

"Don't know what you're talking about."

This punch rocks his head the other way, and blood dribbles from Henry's split lip to the floor.

"Hey!"

Travis shrugs Wes's hand off his shoulder. "You can make this easy, man. Just answer the questions. Did you have anything to do with Paek's death?"

Henry spits a loogie on the floor and glares mulishly at him. Travis's fist in his gut wipes the look off his face, sends him doubling over gasping for breath.

"Stop!" Wes grabs his arm and, with more strength than Travis expects, pulls him away from the chair. "What the hell are you doing?" he hisses, giving Travis a sharp shake.

Travis yanks his arm free. "I'm doing what I have to."

"Like this?" Wes waves a hand at the chair and their hostage. "Beating up an unarmed man?"

"You got any better ideas?" Travis snaps. "He's not gonna talk unless we _make_ him talk."

"There are better ways to do this!"

"What's your plan, Wes? You think we have time to sit around, _ease_ this guy into giving us what we want?" He steps up close, right in Wes's face. "We need to know what he knows."

Wes is tense as a bowstring, hands clenched into fists, but he doesn't say anything.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." Travis backs off a step. "You don't like it, then stand back."

He hears Wes exhale sharply, practically on the other side of the room. That's fine. Travis has got this.

Henry glares up at him, splitting another gob of blood on the floor. "Do your worst. I'm not saying anything."

Travis smiles, sharp-toothed and vicious. "Hey Henry, wanna see something cool? See that picture frame on the wall? Watch."

He points at the frame, and concentrates. A short burst of gold light lances from his fingers to the frame, melting it into slag. The wall barely has a scorch mark.

He presses the tips of his fingers into Henry's thigh, just the bare hint of a golden glow bubbling forth.

"Now," he says, friendly as a shark, "I have some questions."

 **XXXX**

They're halfway down the block when Wes quietly asks, "Did you really have to do that, Travis?"

"You know what?" Travis whirls on his ex, making Wes stop in his tracks. "Yes I did, Wes, okay, it's not like I had any other options. We needed answers."

"But—"

"No! Dammit, Wes, don't you get it? We are on the run! Our friend was killed and that man had something to do with it! We don't have time to play nice!"

"The authorities—"

"The authorities think we did it! Even if they believe us about Paekman, they _saw_ us at the labs! You really want to leave your fate in _their_ hands?"

Wes pulls off the mask, looking upset and worried. "Travis," he says, and his voice matches his face, with a dash of exhaustion thrown in. "Would you have really shot his leg?"

Travis's vision goes white with rage for a second. "Fuck you, Wes," he roars, jabbing Wes's chest. "Fuck you and your moral fucking high horse. Not all of us can live in gilded towers where the system works for us and we can do anything if we just _work hard enough_. Some of us have to do things we don't want to get by, and you don't get to fucking judge until you've been there yourself!"

Wes, for once, is silent, stunned speechless by Travis's tirade. Good. One word out of Wes's mouth and Travis would definitely make a scene.

He steps up to Wes, practically chest to chest, and jabs him again. "Get off your high horse and shove your morals up your fucking _ass_ , 'cuz right now, you can't afford 'em."

He whirls around, stomping down the sidewalk.

"Hey!" Wes hollers, "Where are you going?"

"Out!" Travis throws the middle finger over his shoulder without looking back. "I need a little time without seeing your face."

Right before he turns the corner, he fires one last parting shot.

"And your outfit is still fucking stupid!"

 **XXXX**

 **Back In The Day**

Wes leaps to his feet when he hears the lock click, crowding Travis against the door. "What did you do?"

Travis blinks and holds up a bag. "Got takeout. I felt like Chinese tonight."

"Travis, what did you _do?_ "

The other man blinks again, and if Wes didn't know better he's think Travis really was that clueless. "Is this about your dishrags? I'm gonna replace them, really, I just haven't had the time."

Wes grabs Travis's hand, turns it to expose bruised and bloody knuckles. "Travis. What. Did you. _Do?_ "

The change takes him by surprise, watching the geniality slide off Travis's face, leaving behind someone cold and determined and a little bit dangerous.

Despite himself, Wes takes a step back.

"He was gonna drag you through the mud," Travis tells him, voice full of ice. "Had a whole smear campaign planned. So I found him and we had a little _chat_."

"With your fists?" Wes can't help sounding a little hysterical, but he thinks he's probably warranted. "There wasn't a better option?"

Travis takes a step toward him, slow and sinuous like a panther. "He hated you, Wes. He wasn't going to listen. Sometimes the only way to stop people is to _make_ them stop."

He turns, heads for the kitchen. "He won't be bothering you again. Now, you want any of this food? 'Cuz I am _starving_."

Wes can only stare at Travis's back, shaken to his core. He knew Travis had a rough side, knew Travis did things Wes couldn't exactly approve of, but he thought that was all in the past. This…

God, it's like he doesn't even know Travis at all.

 **XXXX**

 **Now**

"Hey," Kendall says when he gets back, swiveling her chair towards him. "Where's Travis?"

"I don't want to talk about him." Wes stomps into the lair, tossing the stupid mask into the corner. Superheroes. Yeah _right_. They may have gotten stuck with these ridiculous powers, but that doesn't make them heroes. That makes them the unluckiest bastards in the world. "Did you find out who Henry was working for?"

Kendall, bless her soul, knows when not to push. "Not yet. Whoever these guys are, they know how to cover their tracks."

"Well, maybe this will help." He holds out a tote bag, inside which is Derek Henry's laptop, snagged as they made their escape from the scene. "Maybe it'll have something on it."

"Yeah, I'll see what I can find." She takes the bag, then hesitates, looking more uncertain than Wes has ever seen her. "Do, um…do you want to talk about it?"

"Absolutely not." He stomps off to change. "Do you mind if I borrow your couch for a bit? I can feel a headache coming on."

 **XXXX**

Travis has been nursing his pint of beer for the past twenty minutes when the woman in the green halter top slides into the seat next to him. She orders a Bloody Mary, studies him for a long moment, the lights glittering on her earrings.

"What's got you so down?" she asks, nibbling on the celery from her drink.

She could be a cop, he muses. As a fugitive on the run, it's entirely possible sitting in plain sight at the bar is not the wisest plan.

On the other hand, getting arrested would _significantly_ lower his chances of seeing Wes tonight, so there really are no downsides here.

"Regrets," he answers, after a bit too much time has passed, "And asshole exes and terrible breakups."

"I can drink to that." She raises her glass, and he lifts his in kind, clinking together and exchanging heated looks over the rims.

Well. If he's lucky, Travis knows he won't have to deal with Wes's crap at least until the morning.

 **XXXX**

Wes must doze off because he wakes, disoriented and confused. The feeling doesn't abate right away—he feels muzzy-headed, like cotton is stuffed in his brain, and it's hard to focus. When he stands, the floor spins beneath his feet, and he has to clutch the wall to keep from falling over.

He staggers out of the side room into the lair, and the only confidence he has that he's walking in a straight line is that he's following the wall.

"Kendall?" he calls, voice thin and tremulous to his ears.

The redhead turns from her computers and stops dead, mouth dropping, eyes so wide he thinks they're about to pop right out.

He sways unsteadily. "I don't feel very good," he informs her, as clearly as he can.

Kendall rushes forward to catch him as he falls.

 **XXXX**

Halfway to her apartment, Travis knows something is wrong. He feels dizzy, fuzzy and vague, kind of like he's floating. It's possible he spontaneously developed the ability to levitate, which would be awesome, though he's pretty sure Green Halter Top Girl would be freaking out a bit more if he was floating off the ground.

More likely she just roofied him, which sucks and would totally be where this day is heading.

"Hang on," he mumbles, leaning against a conveniently placed brick wall. "Just give me a second." He presses his forehead against the rough brick and closes his eyes, breathing deeply. It doesn't help much.

His phone jangles, at full volume but it sounds muffled. Without opening his eyes, he fumbles it out of his pocket and answers. " 'llo?"

Right about then, Green Halter Top Girl goes, "Oh my _god!_ "

"Travis," Kendall says, and Travis isn't even going to wonder how she got this number when he definitely didn't give it to her. "Travis, you gotta come back, something's wrong with Wes."

That makes him perk up. "What? What is it?"

"I don't know, he's just…he's sort of _dissolving_ , it's really strange and he shouldn't be doing it!"

Green Halter Top Girl, again, says " _Oh my god!_ "

She's staring at him, Travis finds, looking horrified and panicky. Travis follows her gaze.

Oh. Well. Yeah, dissolving is a pretty good word for it. Travis's body is sparking, flashes of gold and neon blue, and there are places where it seems to just eat him away. There's a hole the size of a quarter in his forearm, he can see the asphalt through it, it's even eating away his clothes.

No wonder he's feeling so strange.

The only thing that doesn't seem to be affected is the gauntlet on his arm.

"I'll be right there," he promises Kendall, the words thick and distorted. He attempts to pocket the phone, but it misses, clattering to the ground. He doesn't bother to pick it up. It's a burner anyway.

He does attempt to tell Green Halter Top Girl their little date has to be cancelled, but she's already halfway down the street.

Concentrating as hard as he can, Travis staggers towards Kendall's.

 **XXXX**

It feels like an eternity has passed, and Wes can feel himself fading with every second. He wonders if he'll just dissolve away, and how poor Kendall is going to feel.

He wonders if this is happening to Travis too.

"Wes!" Kendall rushes into the room, pulling him to his feet. "Travis is here, come on!"

The thought of Travis spurs him on. He staggers forward, one foot in front of the other, letting her guide him.

Travis looks as bad as he feels, huge patches missing and surges of gold and blue light rushing over him. Maybe this is it, Paekman's experiment catching up with them. Should have known superpowers weren't _all_ they'd get out of it.

At least they'll die together.

Wes stumbles towards Travis, one arm outstretched. The one with the gauntlet, which wouldn't mean anything except Travis is reaching out with _his_ gauntleted arm, and Wes can feel an almost electric hum coming from the metal, drawing them together like magnets.

He falls, and Travis falls, and right before he passes out, he hears a heavy 'klung!', deep and sonorous, and something inside him snaps into place.


	2. Chapter 2: The T-Bone Effect

**Summary:** The adventure continues! LA's most dysfunctional superhero duo must confront kidnappers, wild animals, and each other. The stakes have never been higher!

 **See first chapter for warnings.**

 **OOOO**

 **Enigma & T-Bone: An Origin Story: The T-Bone Effect**

" _Hear this now: I will always come for you."_

— _Westley, The Princess Bride_

 **XXXX**

 **Back In The Day**

There is a vagabond laying on the couch.

Wes stares at the vagabond. The vagabond stares back,

Wes tightens his grip on his bag protectively and says, "Um."

The vagabond grins, a perfect white crescent in bruised mocha skin. "Hi. You must be the roommate."

"Um," Wes says again. He shuffles towards the bedrooms. "Yes. Hi. I—Paekman!"

His roommate pokes his head out of his room. "Yeah? Oh, hey Wes. You're home early."

Crossing the living room in two steps, Wes grabs Paekman's arm and pulls him into the bedroom, just behind the doorway. "Who is _that_ and why is he on our couch?"

"That's Travis. He's a friend." Paekman shifts, scratching his neck. "I offered him our couch for a little while."

"You did _what?_ "

"Look." Paekman shuffles an inch closer and drops his voice. "He's in a bit of a rough spot right now. He needs a place to stay and we have room."

Wes peeks around the doorway at the man on the couch. "He looks like he's been hit by a truck."

Paekman grimaces. "He fell in with kind of a shady crowd, and got in a bit of trouble."

"Oh, yes, Paekman, that's great. Let's invite someone who got in trouble with a shady crowd into our home. That's a stellar plan."

"Wes." Paekman clasps his hands in front of him, turning pleading eyes on Wes. "Man, Travis is a really good guy. It's just for a couple of weeks, just until he gets back on his feet. Please?"

Wes bites his lip. "I have rules…"

"I will sit him down and tell him all of your rules. Hell, I'll give him an annotated list."

"You don't have to go _that_ far…"

"Please, Wes?" Paekman reaches out, puts his hand on Wes's shoulder. "He's a friend. I'd really appreciate it."

Wes peeks out the doorway again. Travis sees him this time and gives him a little smile and a tiny wave over the back of the couch. Wes can feel his resolve breaking.

"Fine," he sighs in defeat. "But I am not picking up after him."

Paekman breaks out in a huge grin and embraces him. "You won't have to, promise. Thank you, Wes."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Wes mutters, flustered and embarrassed, and he extricates himself from his friend's arms because he has a rule about hugs too.

Travis is still in the same spot when Wes comes back to the living room. He glances up, eyebrows raised in a polite query. Wes hesitates beside the couch.

"I, uh, I'll try to find some sheets for you. I think Paekman has an extra pillow…"

The smile Travis gives him is the warmest facial expression Wes has ever seen on anyone, like a sunny summer's day and melting chocolate and layers of blankets in the winter. "Thanks," he says, holding out his hand. "Travis Marks."

Wes slowly slips his palm against Travis's. "Wes Mitchell. Nice to meet you."

A spark erupts from their joined hands, like excitement and possibility.

 **XXXX**

 **Now**

Wes wakes up on the floor, which confuses him so much he simply lays there for a minute, blinking at the ceiling. Slowly, the events of—last night?—come filtering back. It seems too fantastical to be real. How could a man dissolve into light?

Then again, Wes can form glowing force fields with his mind, so 'impossible' has taken on a new meaning lately.

The sound of clacking draws his attention to the side. A familiar figure is seated in front of the bank of computers, typing away.

Wes clears his throat.

Kendall whirls around in her chair, a relieved smile lighting her face. "Wes! You're up! How are you feeling?"

She's awfully well-composed for someone who saw him dissolving away. He narrows his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Almost ten. In the morning," she adds for clarification.

Well, that would do it. She's had plenty of time to adjust.

"Why am I on the floor?"

"Because you guys are really heavy when you're dead weight. I got you a blanket, though."

Yes, she did. "I appreciate that." He goes to sit up, but his arm, stretched awkwardly over his head, doesn't come, caught fast. He rolls over and finds his arm has been tied to Travis's with computer cable, pressing the gauntlets together.

"What the hell?"

"You both just—" Kendall makes a motion with her hands like something being sucked together, "when the bracelet-thingys hit, but I didn't know if they needed to, like, recharge or something. I figured better safe than sorry."

Wes gently thumps his forehead against the ground. "I hate my life."

That's when Travis stirs, groaning, and says, "Why am I on the floor?"

 **XXXX**

After a quick breakfast, they compare notes and determine that yes, what they thought happened did, in fact, happen. Now they're trying to figure out why.

"I felt really lightheaded," Wes says, working the problem aloud. "Kind of…fuzzy."

"Same," Travis agrees. "It was kind of like I was fading."

Wes snaps his fingers. "I felt like that before. Right after the labs exploded, remember? It was really fuzzy—"

"And our gauntlets hit," Travis chimes in, "and there was this deep 'klung!'"

"And everything just snapped into place," Wes finishes.

They mull over this.

"You know," Travis hesitantly offers, "the time between those two incidences—"

"No." Wes can follow the same train of thought, and he doesn't want to hear it. "Don't even say it."

"—is almost exactly twenty-four hours."

Dammit, he said it. "No. No, no, _no_." Wes covers his face and shakes his head. " _No_."

Kendall looks between the two of them. "I don't get it."

Wes's head shoots up, a poisonous glare aimed Travis's direction. "Are you _seriously_ telling me if we don't hit these stupid bracelets together every twenty-four hours, we will _disintegrate?_ "

Travis's face confirms his guess, but what he says is, "They're gauntlets, not bracelets."

"I don't _care_ what they fucking _called_ , Travis!"

Kendall's head is going back and forth like a tennis match, frowning in consideration. "I still don't get it. Is it really that big of a deal?"

"Not really," Travis says, at the same time that Wes snaps, "Yes!"

"Come on, Wes," Travis wheedles, "It's not that bad. We get superpowers."

"That's not an even trade-off!" Wes rockets to his feet, face screwed up, hands clenched at his sides. "You _left_ , Travis! For _seven years_ you were gone. You might as well have been _dead!"_

Travis looks stunned at his outburst, eyes wide and mouth hanging slightly open. Wes is kind of surprised himself; none of this was supposed to come out.

But now that he's started, he can't seem to stop.

"I moved on, Travis! I got over you, I have a life that you're not a part of! Then you come waltzing in here like nothing's changed, drag me in the middle of all this shit, and now—now I _literally_ can't live without you. I can't _do_ this again! I _can't!"_

To his horror, his voice breaks, and he can feel tears welling in his eyes. He blinks furiously, refusing to let them fall.

He sees Travis open his mouth, and it's too much. He can't bear to hear whatever asinine justification Travis will come up with. He holds up a hand and snaps, "No," backing towards the door. "Don't say a word."

"Where are you going?" Kendall asks softly. Wes almost forgot she was there. Wonderful, his humiliation is now complete.

"Out," he says shortly, turning. "I just—I can't do this right now."

He gets all the way to the door before he whirls around and stomps back to Travis. He grabs the other man's arm and bangs the gauntlets together, a hollow 'klung!' that rings through his bones.

"There. Now I have a full day before I have to see your stupid face again."

He leaves before he can embarrass himself any further, slamming the door behind him.

 **XXXX**

The slamming door is as loud as a gunshot in the quiet room. As the echoes fade away, Travis deflates, dropping his head in his hands and collapsing in on himself.

God, he had no idea. He knew Wes was upset about what happened, Paekman had said as much, but he'd had no idea it affected Wes like _that_.

He never wants to see Wes's face look like that again.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," he mutters into his palms. "I just came for my friend's funeral."

In and out in a day, that was the plan. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Kendall's chair squeaks a little as she shifts. "Are you ever going to tell him?" she asks him gently, softly, like he's something fragile about to shatter. "About the real reason you left."

Travis lifts his head, peers blearily at her. "What do you know about it?"

"Nothing," she admits. "But I'm not so close, so I can see the things he's missing."

"Like what?"

"Like, he clearly thinks you left because you didn't care. It's just as obvious you didn't."

Travis exhales in a great, gusty sigh. "And you say that because…?"

"Because I've seen the way you look at him." She gives him a sympathetic smile. "You not caring is about the furthest thing from the truth, isn't it?"

Damn, she's good. He can see why Wes likes her.

"Look, Kendall." He sits up, rubs his hand over his face. "You're a sweet girl, but I really don't want to have this conversation with you."

"Of course not. You should be having it with Wes."

Well, yes, but… "I don't think he's in a listening mood right now."

"…that's probably true."

Travis scrubs his face one more time. It's not quite enough to banish Wes's anguished face from his mind, but maybe he deserves that, since he's the one who put it there.

"What have you gotten from Henry's computer?" he asks, moving behind Kendall's computer chair.

Kendall takes his totally unsubtle subject change and runs with it. "Not much. Whoever these guys are, they know how to cover their tracks. I've got a few leads, but I'm gonna need to do a bit more digging."

"Okay." Travis claps her gently on the shoulders. "I'm gonna head back to my place and get some stuff. You'll call if you find anything?"

"Definitely."

Travis takes his leave. On the street, he tucks his hands in his pockets and hunches his shoulders, just another nameless, faceless city-dweller about his business.

He hopes Wes is laying low.

God, how did everything go to shit so fast?

 **XXXX**

It's probably stupid, coming here. Wes knows how these things work. The police always keep an eye on friends and family in case the fugitive returns to familiar grounds.

But Wes didn't know where else to go.

He's not dumb enough to actually go and see Alex. From his vantage on a park bench, he can see the entrance to her apartment building, and there's a comfort being here. Aside from Paekman, Alex is his closest friend, his confidante. She's the only one he ever talked about Travis with, so if he could go up there, tell her about what's happened these past few days, then maybe he could work through some things. _Maybe_.

Wes sighs, dropping his head on the back of the bench. Of course he's _not_ going to. But he wants to.

There's just too much going on right now. He has no idea how he's supposed to work through his own feelings when they have this twenty-four hour time limit to deal with. _Superpowers_. They're on the run, and, of course, there's Paekman's murder to top it all off.

His own feelings easily drop to the bottom of the list with all that going on.

"What am I doing?" he questions the trees above him. He's not a superhero; he's not even a cop. He's a _lawyer_ , 9-to-5 every day in a suit. He should go to the police, lay everything out, and put his faith in the system he's spent his whole life defending.

Instead, he's on the run with his ex, working with a hacker to find the truth. He'd panicked, is what. After the explosion, he'd been afraid and confused and Travis seemed to know what he was doing, so Wes had blindly followed his instructions.

"I can't do this." He's an ordinary guy who got involved way over his head and he doesn't know how to handle this. He should never have let Travis talk him into anything.

Travis.

No. No, _no_ , he is not doing this. Not now, maybe not ever. That can of worms should never be opened.

Wes sighs, looks back at Alex's building. God, he wishes he could tell her what a strange, terrible, wonderful mess his life has suddenly become.

But not now. Soon. But _now_ he has to go tell his ex they need a new plan because he just isn't cut out for this sort of thing.

"Oh yeah, this is gonna go well," he mutters, rising to his feet.

That's when about three pairs of hands grab him, and everything goes dark.

 **XXXX**

Unsurprisingly, Wes isn't at Travis's place. Honestly, Travis came here because it was about the last place on earth he figured Wes would end up. But now that he's here, the little apartment feels cold and lonely and as impersonal as a doctor's office. The bags by the bed don't help—it just makes the place seem that much more transient, people living out of bags because they're just not staying that long.

Look at him, getting all maudlin when there are better things to be doing. He totally blames Wes.

Wes's picture frame is still on the table, face-down where Wes left it. Travis picks it up, studying the happy couple. Wes is smiling, alive and bright in a way Travis hasn't seen aimed his direction in a long time, and Alex is gorgeous, the same classic beauty Wes has—maybe not conventionally pretty, but a long time ago people would have made statues of them.

They were happy and in love, and the engagement may have fallen through but Wes still speaks of her so fondly. Still makes sure to grab her photo when he's going to ground.

Once upon a time, Travis was that happy. He lived in a crappy dormitory apartment with his lover and his best friend and he was willing to stay there forever, to make a _home_.

Instead, he lives out of bags in rooms with no life inside, moving from city to city and never settling down.

"At least you had a life," he tells the glossy portrait in his hands.

The photographed Wes grins at him, _mocking_ him, and Travis feels something inside him snap.

He lets out a ferocious yell and tosses the frame across the room.

 **XXXX**

 **Back In The Day**

"Hey, Paekman."

The other man jumps, slapping on the lights. When he sees who's sitting in his living room, he freezes, mouth dropping to the floor.

"T-Travis? You…how? I don't—"

It's almost funny, seeing him so flabbergasted. Travis shoots him a small, tired smile. "Hey, man. Been a long time."

Paekman shuts the door behind him, looking around like he thinks someone might be listening in on them. "What are you _doing_ here, Travis?" he hisses.

"Oh, you know. My…business troubles finally cleared up, so I thought I'd come say hi, test the waters. How's Wes doing?" He's proud of how casual he keeps that last question. All that practicing in the mirror paid off.

Paekman's face goes through a couple of permutations. "That's not a good idea, T."

"I'm sure it'll be fine. Just a couple of old friends catching up. It's not like I'm planning on—"

"He's getting married, Travis."

Travis can feel the color drain from his face, the ground yanked out beneath his feet. "What?" The word has to fight its way past a tight knot in his throat.

Paekman exhales sharply, runs a hand through his hair. "It's been _two years_ , man. Did you think he would wait for you? Especially with the way you left?"

That hadn't been his prime concern at the time, no; he'd had other things to worry about. He'd figured Wes would be upset, but…

"I'd hoped he'd mellowed with time."

With a huff, Paekman drops into the chair opposite Travis. "Come on, T, Wes is the Olympic gold medalist of holding grudges, you know that."

"True, true." Travis stares at a spot inches above Paekman's head, tapping his fingers on his knees. "Married, huh? What's she like?"

"Travis, don't do this to yourself…"

"Is she pretty? I bet she's pretty."

"She's lovely," Paekman sighs, giving in. "Her name is Alex. She works at his law firm. She's really nice. You'd like her."

"I'm sure I would." Travis's smile is bitter and much too close to tears for his liking. "Is he happy, Paekman?"

His old friend's face is unbearably sympathetic, seeing way too much on Travis's. "Very."

If Travis doesn't get out of here right this second he's going to do something embarrassingly emotional. "Congrats are in order, then, I suppose," he chirps, falsely bright as he climbs to his feet.

"Travis." Paekman rises in alarm. "That's not a good idea. He really doesn't want to see you."

"Who said anything about seeing him?" Travis calls over his shoulder. "I was thinking of getting them a wedding present. Maybe a nice set of silverware."

 **XXXX**

 **Now**

The frame is still shattered on the floor when he emerges from the bathroom. Travis ignores it for about fifteen seconds before his guilty conscience urges him to pick it up.

Letting out a big, put-upon sigh, Travis crouches beside the mess to fish out the photo. The picture didn't fare too badly—just one tiny tear from the glass, up in the corner. Maybe Wes won't notice. (Wes will totally notice, but maybe he'll be a bit more forgiving since the scratch isn't in the middle of their faces.)

(Yeah _right_.)

Slowly, so as not to rip to photo any further, he eases it out from under the glass. Which reveals a second photo underneath. A familiar photo, one Travis recognizes intimately, because he has the same photo folded up on his wallet. Him and Wes and Paekman, all smiles and youthful cheer.

" _This frame holds the most important picture I've got. I wasn't going to leave it behind."_

"Dammit, Wes." Travis drops his hand, shakes it in disbelief. "You damn contrary bastard."

Right when he thought Wes was predictable, the man makes a sharp left turn and throws all of Travis's presumptions in the air. It's one of Travis's favorite things about Wes. It's also one of the man's most frustrating traits.

His phone buzzes while he's placing the photos on the table. It's an email coming in, which wouldn't catch his attention except the sender is Paekman.

Paekman, who has been dead over a week and was buried two days ago.

Travis feels a chill run down his spine.

The title of the email reads WATCH NOW! THIS IS IMPORTANT! But Travis can't get the video attachment to open on his phone. Since he doesn't have a computer here, he's going to have to go back to Kendall's.

Much as he'd love to debate all the ways Wes is a confusing, ornery bastard, this takes precedence.

He'll deal with Wes later. It's not like he's going anywhere.

 **XXXX**

Wes wakes in the dark. Not actually dark, but a hood of some sort, judging by the musty fabric in front of his nose and mouth. Add that to the men that grabbed him and Wes is in serious trouble.

He tries not to panic. He is only moderately successful.

Don't panic. The key to these situations is to stay calm and assess the situation. Wes takes a few deep breaths, gags a little on the cloth over his face, and assesses the situation.

His arms are tied above his head, suspended from a—chain, his inquiring fingers tell him. He's dangling, stretched up enough his toes just barely brush the ground. His _bare_ toes, because they took his shoes and socks and everything but his boxers what the _fuck?_

Okay, okay, deep breaths. _Calm_. He has assessed the situation. And?

He is so _seriously_ fucked.

If it were Travis here, he'd start shooting, first the chains and then anyone who got in his way. Instead, _he's_ here, him and his useless shield ability.

But why _can't_ his powers be offensive? As far as he knows, they've got the same sort of energy. Different colors, sure, but that can't make _that_ much of a difference. Why _can't_ his powers be used offensively? If he created a shield _within_ something—say, in the middle of the chain—then there's a chance the chain will dissolve away.

Wes has seen Travis's blasts melt rock to slag and vapor, and it's not like he has a lot of options here.

He takes a slow breath, clenches his fists, and concentrates.

Electricity courses through him, white-hot and agonizing. He screams, or thinks he does, jerking on the chain, body dancing on the lightning's storm. It's an eternity of agony in a few seconds, and when it stops Wes almost sobs in relief.

Over the blood pounding in his ears, he hears footsteps. A hand yanks the hood from his face; he blinks tears, squinting in the blinding brilliance after so long in the dark.

"I wouldn't try that again, Mitchell," a gravelly voice tells him. The blurry blob in front of him gradually resolves into a man's face, shaved head, squashed by too many fights, and grinning cruelly. "We didn't have a lot of time to perfect it," the man continues, "so it's a bit powerful. A few more jolts like that might just kill you."

Wes blinks again, limbs trembling involuntarily. He doesn't even try to stop it. "W-what…why—"

"You were the smart one, wearing a mask," the man says, pacing slowly in front of Wes. "But your boyfriend, not so smart. Once we identified him, it was a simple matter to figure out who you were."

"Not my boyfriend," Wes mumbles, barely keeping track of the man in front of him.

The man ignores him. "Of course, knowing Marks's identity didn't help us find him. He's good at hiding, going to ground. But _you_. You're predictable. We knew it was only a matter of time before you went some place familiar. And look at that. We were right!"

A cold spike of fear runs through him. Oh god, _Alex_. He lunges forward, chain jerking him to an unceremonious halt. "If you hurt her—!"

"Re _lax_." The man pushes him back with a single, thick finger. "We didn't touch her. It's not _her_ we want."

Wes unclenches, but just a fraction. They didn't hurt Alex, but only because they wanted Wes and Travis, and not for anything good. He's still in trouble here.

"Who are you?"

"John Crowl," his captor says, that same cruel grin on his face.

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?" Wes snaps, fear making him sharp. He's alone and defenseless, and Travis can't swoop in and rescue him. Travis doesn't even know he was taken, and besides, after the way Wes treated him earlier…

At the very least, Wes can be confident Travis would save him for his own self-preservation. _If_ he knew where Wes was.

Crowl smirks, crossing his arms in front of him and just casually radiating smug superiority. "You don't know me, but you, Wes Mitchell, are of _great_ scientific interest to my group."

Wes feels another cold spike of fear run through him.

 **XXXX**

"Hey Kendall," Travis calls as soon as he steps into the lair. "You got an extra computer I can watch a video on?"

It takes a second for her to pull herself from her computer screens, but then she shakes her head a little and focuses. "Yeah, um…here." From a nearby shelf, under a pile of other tech and cables, she pulls out a slim laptop. "Wi-fi should connect automatically."

Travis takes the laptop to the side room, sitting at the small table. Within moments, he has Paekman's email pulled up, the video buffered and ready to go.

Steeling himself, Travis presses play.

The video starts with Paekman sitting in his living room, calm, if a little nervous. He clears his throat, looks right at the camera, and says, "Travis, if you're watching this, I'm dead."

Travis flinches. On the screen, Paekman's face crumples, and he goes, "Oh god, I can't—" He reaches for the camera, and the screen goes momentarily blank.

Travis pauses the video and takes a second to compose himself.

When he presses play again, Paekman is back, looking shaken and upset, the way anyone would making this kind of video, but in control. Paekman was always good at that, keeping control of himself, level-headed, when Travis would fly off the handle in a heartbeat and even Wes would lose his temper on occasion. Travis suddenly misses Paekman fiercely, a sudden sharp pain that shoots through him like one of his lazer beams.

"Okay," Paekman says on the video. "Okay. So I'm dead." His voice cracks a little on the last word, but he gamely keeps going. "I don't know who exactly killed me, obviously, but I know who's responsible."

He leans forward, staring into the camera. Travis finds himself leaning forward as well, matching the urgency in his friend's body.

"They call themselves the SIS."

 **XXXX**

"I work for a group called the SIS," Crowl says, strutting in front of Wes.

Wes rolls his eyes. "That means as much to me as your name did."

"We pride ourselves on our discretion."

"You mean you skulk in the shadows like cowards," Wes scoffs.

In hindsight, the fist he receives in his midsection shouldn't actually be a surprise. Antagonizing the man who kidnapped him, not the best idea. It knocks the breath out of him, though, leaving him dangling limp from the chains, gasping for breath.

Casually, Crowl flexes his fingers and continues his slow stalking in front of Wes. "SIS. Superior Intelligence Systems. We deal with cutting-edge science, breaking boundaries, going where others won't, and making a profit in the meantime. And when a new technology comes to our attention, we do our best to…acquire it."

Wes manages to get his feet under him and his breathing back under control, for the most part. "Paekman," he spits, venom in the words.

It doesn't take a genius to put two and two together and realize this SIS group—maybe John Crowl himself—had something to do with his friend's death.

"That's right," Crowl says, pleasantly surprised like his dog did a new trick. "Your friend Paek was working with a new type of energy. Very powerful. Very unstable. The SIS became interested in ways to…improve it."

"Weaponize it, you mean." It's not hard to see where this is going. A guy like Crowl isn't going to provide cheap clean energy for the disenfranchised. "Let me guess, Paekman said no."

"Unfortunately." Crowl pauses in front of him, shaking his head sadly. "We offered him so much, but he wanted none of it."

 _Good for you, Paekman_. It may have gotten him killed, but Paekman stuck with his morals to the end. _Good for you_.

"Anyway," Crowl continues, "after the funeral, when we thought the cops wouldn't be paying any more attention, we sent a group to PC Labs to retrieve Paek's data. But there was an explosion, resulting in a very curious, _very_ unique energy surge."

He whirls on Wes, leaning so close Wes scrabbles back as much as the chain will allow.

"Imagine my surprise," Crowl whispers, breath washing over Wes's face, "when we learned there were _survivors_ to the explosion. And then, just a day later, one of our men was attacked by two men exhibiting _very_ unusual powers. Coincidence? I think not."

"So? All this—" Wes rattles the chain over his head. "is because…what? You think I know something about Paekman's work?"

Crowl rears back, the look of shock on his face so exaggerated it'd be comical in other circumstances.

And then he laughs, head thrown back, a full belly laugh that shakes his whole body. "You?" he gasps, "You… _know_ …" And he breaks down in another fit of laughter.

Wes is a little offended, honestly.

"You think we want you because you know something about Paek's research?" Crowl chortles, wiping his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous, Mitchell. You _are_ Paek's research."

Oh _shit_.

 **XXXX**

"A few weeks ago, I was approached by a man. He said he was part of a group called the SIS, and they were interested in my work. I'd never heard of them, but they were willing to fund my work, so I decided to check them out."

Paekman lets out a shaky breath and bows his head, hands clasped behind his neck. "I didn't find much, but it all seemed legit. No red flags. But…I don't know. I just got a funny feeling, you know? So I dug a little deeper."

He lifts his head, and even with the poor video quality, Travis can see the fear on Paekman's face.

"It's not good, man. The SIS, they've stolen work, copied research. Rumor has it they're involved in a _lot_ of unethical stuff. No one's been killed, not that anyone can prove, I mean, but scientists have disappeared without a trace. It's not hard to guess who's behind it.

Paekman runs his hands over his face, and his voice cracks. "These are really bad guys, Trav. I don't think I'm gonna make it out of this one."

 **XXXX**

"What do you mean, _I'm_ his research?" Wes demands, mind reeling. It's his so-called superpowers, it has to be. They were standing right in the middle of a giant machine in Paekman's lab—he and Travis must have been bombarded with the energy. And then the explosion, and they were the only ones who survived…

"The energy is unstable," Crowl cheerfully informs him. "On its own, at least. Somehow it's bonded to your molecules, stabilizing it and allowing you a measure of control."

Wes is struck with the sudden certainty that Crowl is telling him all this because Wes isn't going to make it out of this alive.

"So what?" he snaps, clenching his hands. "You experiment on me, try to figure out how it all works. Then you kill me?"

Crowl pauses, eyes widening. "Why would we kill you?" He sounds genuinely surprised.

Wes isn't fooled. "You killed Paekman! He wouldn't do what you wanted so you killed him!"

Crowls surprise dwindles, and he shakes his head with a small chuckle. "I see. You think…" He gives another amused shake of his head. "We didn't kill Paek, Mitchell. We _needed_ him. He knew more about the energy he was working with than anyone. We have some very smart people working for us, but it'll take them months, if not years, to reconstruct all of Paek's research. We wanted him with us."

But…that doesn't make sense. The police were looking into Paekman's death, and Paekman _never_ would have worked for these guys. He had to have been murdered.

Unless…

"What are you saying?"

Smirking, relishing his next words, Crowl struts in front of him, radiating smug arrogance. "You can't figure it out? Your friend didn't want to work for us. Too many _morals_. So he killed himself."

It's like an actual, physical blow. "No…"

"Oh yes." Crowl is enjoying this, rubbing salt in the wounds. "He deleted his research and ran his car off the road. But he couldn't destroy his lab, so we sent a team to take what they could so we could recreate his experiments on our own."

"The labs are gone," Wes mumbles numbly.

"That's alright." All good cheer, Crowl claps him on the shoulder. "Now we've got you."

 **XXXX**

"I'm not telling you this because I want you to do something about it," Paekman says, staring earnestly into the camera. "You hear me, Travis? These guys are worse than anything you've come up against. Leave it alone."

"Yeah right," Travis mutters, hands fisting in his lap, letting off tiny golden sparks. "You didn't want me to do anything, why'd you tell me all this?"

"I don't know why I'm telling you this," Paekman says, running his hand through his hair again. "I guess I just want _someone_ to know the truth about what happened, and I can't tell Wes. You know how he gets. He'd run himself to the ground trying to solve my death. And that's if the SIS didn't get to him first."

Yeah, that's true.

Glaring into the camera now, Paekman holds out an admonishing finger. "I'm serious, Travis. Don't look into this. _Drop it_. It's not worth your life."

His face softens, a sad smile tugging at his lips. "Say hi to Wes for me."

The video ends.

Travis doesn't move for a long minute, staring at the blank screen. How is he supposed to ignore this? His friend was _murdered_ and Travis knows who did it, and Paekman thinks he's going to just ignore that?

Yeah _right_.

"Travis!" Kendall calls from the next room. Travis shakes himself out of his daze, climbing to his feet. He's not gonna give this up. He's going to give the SIS to Kendall, she's going to give him a location, and he's gonna blow these bastards out of the water.

"Hey, Kendall, I got a name I need you to check—"

"We got a problem." Kendall turns to him, eyes wide, voice frantic. "I'm just getting a lot of police reports of a blonde Caucasian male being kidnapped off the street."

Travis hesitates, fear curdling his stomach. "It could be a coincidence…" He offers weakly.

"You and I both know how likely _that_ is." She pulls up a map on her computer. "They're saying it happened in a park. Why would he be there?"

Travis moves up behind her, studying the map. "What's around the park?"

"I don't know, just a bunch of apartment buildings."

The cold, creeping tendrils of dread spread. "Is one of the tenants named Alex MacFarland?"

"Um…" Type type type. "Yeah, 417 Crescent Place, apartment 802."

Shit. Shit shit _shit_. Travis backs away, hands over his nose and mouth, doing his level best to swallow down the panic. They've got Wes. First they killed Paekman, now they've got Wes, and who knows _what_ they're doing to him?

"Okay." Get yourself under control, Marks. Wes needs you. "Okay. Kendall, I need you to find me everything you can on a group called the SIS. And I need a location, 'cuz they've taken Wes."

 **XXXX**

 **Back In The Day**

"I'll be damned, Travis Marks."

The familiar voice is like a knife in the back. Travis clenches his teeth and turns, a grimace on his face that can in no way be mistaken for a smile. "Jason."

Jason grins at him, clapping him on the shoulder. "Long time no see. How you doin', brother?"

Travis isn't even subtle when he yanks his arm out from Jason's grasp. "You're not my brother." He turns and stomps down the sidewalk, hoping his sharp tone is enough to make Jason back off.

Undaunted, Jason trots up beside him. "So I have this problem," he says, gesturing grandly, "and I thought, you know, Travis could help!"

"No." Travis pauses, jabs a finger in Jason's chest. "I'm out. I'm done. I won't help you with your schemes. Leave me the _fuck_ alone."

He only gets four steps away when Jason says, "Wes, huh?"

Travis stops dead, his glare enough to melt steel. Jason just strolls to his side once more, hands tucked casually in his pockets. "He's cute enough, I suppose, if you like that sort of thing. But, of course, _you_ do, don't you? Never seen you stay with one person so long."

Travis's hand moves before he can stop himself, grabbing Jason's collar and slamming him into the nearest wall.

"Don't you _dare_."

Jason chuckles, low and mean. "He must be something special, huh? You care about him?"

"If you so much as _talk_ to him—"

"Who said anything about talking?" Jason's eyes are hard, no trace of warmth or familiarity. Might as well have been a stranger. "Lots of things can happen to pretty blonde college students."

For a terrible, horrible second, Travis is overcome with a truly murderous rage. His vision goes red, and he wants to—he could—

"This," he hisses, trembling in rage or fear or maybe both, "this is why we're not brothers anymore."

Jason barely bats an eye. "I'll contact you with the details," he declares, extricating himself from Travis's grasp. "It'll be fun working with you again. Just like old times."

He throws a jaunty wave over his shoulder and saunters off, leaving Travis behind, shaking and furious and unable to do anything about it.

 **XXXX**

 **Now**

The boat is dark, sleek, and runs with a low rumble, cutting through the water like a hot knife through butter. It is exactly the sort of boat Travis imagines a drug dealer might have, which implies things about Money, the foster brother he borrowed the boat from, that he doesn't want to speculate too deeply on. He resists the urge to search the boat for secret hidey-holes.

Ahead of him, a shape looms from the darkness, black in the dark blue night, a mass of land floating on midnight water. Travis eases on the throttle, slowing the boat and guiding it across the water silently. He's tense, looking for patrols or guards, but as far as he can tell, the island is deserted.

Appearances can be deceiving.

After a lot of searching and electronic magic and trickery Travis didn't begin to understand, Kendall said she'd located the SIS. "Or, at least, one of their local bases," she'd added, printing out an overhead satellite view. "It's an island just beyond the international waterline."

"It looks abandoned," Travis pointed out, studying the printout. From above, the island looked like nothing but a mass of green trees and rocky embankments.

"It's not." She handed him another printout, this one done in infrared. Now he could see building outlines and a lot of hot, red-yellow bodies moving around. "It's all cleverly disguised. Now, I can't tell you which one is Wes. But if he's anywhere, I bet it's here."

"Alright." Handing the printouts back to her, Travis pulled out his phone. "I'm gonna call a man about a boat. And I'm gonna need a map to that island."

Now, here he is, coasting into shore with his engines dead, prepared to head into unknown hostile territory, _alone_ without backup, to rescue his ex from the clutches of evil.

 _The things I do for you, Wes_ , he muses, but the thought is more rueful than bitter.

As quietly as he can, he finds a tiny little cove to stick the boat in. There aren't any footprints in the sand, so hopefully this area of the beach isn't visited a lot. His foster brother will kill him if anything happens to the boat.

Pulling out the tiniest penlight known to man, Travis studies the infrared scan of the island, then sets out.

He crosses paths with just one patrol, ducking behind a tree as they pass. Much as he'd love to wreak havoc and beat them blue until they tell him where he needs to go, the goal is to get in stealthily and find Wes. _Then_ he can bust his way out causing as much chaos as humanly possible.

After all, who knows what they'll do to Wes if they know he's here.

He eventually finds a wall, hidden beneath a fake canopy of trees. From above, it would look just like a forest, as Travis has seen. It's clever; if he didn't hate these guys already, he'd be impressed. Keeping well away from the wall—just in case there are cameras or motion sensors—he edges along, looking for a door.

When he finds one, it has a keypad.

"Do you have any codebreaking things?" he'd asked Kendall before he left. "In case these guys have keypads on their doors? They seem the sort who'd have keypads on their doors."

She'd stared at him like he had two heads. "Why would I have codebreaking devices?" she gaped.

"I don't know. You're the hacker type, isn't that standard?"

"This isn't a _movie_ , Travis. Besides, I'm just tech support. I don't _need_ codebreaking devices."

He'd harumphed and put his hands on his hips. "Well, then, how am I supposed to get through their doors?"

She'd looked pointedly at his hands and said, "I'm sure you'll find away."

Now, Travis takes a breath, aims, and concentrates.

The golden beam of energy hits, not the door, but the wall ten feet from the door. Way he figures it, the door is probably wired with alarms and sensors; the wall, maybe not so much. If he can get through there, he might still have a chance at this whole stealth thing without people crawling out of the woodwork to stop him.

The hardest part is burning through the wall but no further. His power is still brand new, but he's gaining control with every second he uses it.

When the hole in the wall is large enough for him to stop through, Travis stops the energy and hunkers down, holding his breath. He waits a minute, then another, but nothing happens; no alarms, no guards, no patrols wandering by wondering what this giant hole is doing here.

Steeling himself for a fight and ready to face whatever's in the fortress, Travis darts inside.

 **XXXX**

Wes feels woozy. Not like disintegrating-into-brightly-colored-energy-woozy, but lightheaded and dizzy like he's lost too much blood. He blames Crowl's scientists. They must have taken at least like nine gallons out of him. Plus clippings of his hair and any other body sample they could get their latex-covered hands on. Wes has never felt so violated.

Crowl didn't stay long after he finished gloating. Presumably men working for evil organizations have better things to do, like terrorizing small children and kicking puppies. He did leave a guard on the door and none of the scientists are allowed to be alone in the room with him, in case Wes, in his near-naked, chained up glory, comes up with a cunning plan to overpower the vampires.

"Is making me pass out the goal?" he asks the latest bloodsucker, jerking away from the needle zeroing in on his arm. "Because if it is, you are _well_ on your way to accomplishing it."

"No speaking," Crowl's henchman snarls.

"Really?" Sometimes Wes curses his inability to keep his smart mouth to himself. "These people work _for you._ I'm sure they've done worse than this. You honestly think a few well-placed comments on my end will sway them to my side?"

The henchman stomps up, getting right in his face. "Shut. Up."

Wes snorts, not impressed by the show of dominance at _all._ "Or what?"

The 'or what' turns out to be a gag, cousin to the musty hood they've first had him in, and Wes immediately regrets it because he has no idea _where_ this thing has been and now it is _in his mouth._

The scientist finishes drawing blood and scurries out. The henchman smirks from the doorway. "Think I'll leave that in for a while. Get a little peace."

Wes shouts muffled invectives as the door slams shut, and once more he's left alone to ponder the absolute _shithole_ his life has become.

Slowly, he settles, slumping in the chains. God, he doesn't know what to do. He's been kidnapped by people who clearly see him as nothing more than an experiment, nobody but the bad guys knows where he is, and even if Travis _did_ know Wes isn't sure he'd come, not after how he'd stormed out earlier. Not after everything that's happened between them.

Self-preservation only goes so far.

That's not quite right. Wes _does_ know what to do. He can only see one way out of this.

Paekman gave his life to keep his work out of these people's hands. After just a few hours in their grasp, Wes understands all too well why.

 _I'm sorry, Travis_ , he thinks, wishing there was some way Travis could hear him.

Eyes closed, he tightens his hands into fists and draws his power to the surface, letting it coalesce around him.

Electricity tears through him.

 **XXXX**

Travis is getting awfully sick of these twisting hallways and endless walls of doors. This place is a maze. Where are all the signs saying 'Exit' and 'Control room' and 'Prisoners this way'?

"I don't have time for this," he grumbles, staring down another identical hallway. Okay, he's decided; next person he sees, he's going to grab by the throat and shake until they give him what he needs, subtlety be damned.

"Sounds like a plan," he congratulates himself sarcastically, stomping down the hall.

Then he turns and retraces his steps, staring at a plain metal door. Unlike all the other doors in this hallway, this one has light at the bottom.

" 'bout fucking time," he grins, and readies his lazer guns.

There are two people in the room, and they both freeze when he bursts through the melted door. Travis puts on his most charming grin. "So. Which one of you is gonna tell me where my boyfriend is?"

The big ugly dude in black raises a gun. Travis is faster. He's definitely getting the hang of this; he totally only stunned the guy instead of blowing a hole in his chest.

He turns on the woman, a brunette in a lab coat. "Your turn. You gonna help me or join your friend on the floor?"

The woman is staring at his hands, the way a ten-year-old looks at a candy bowl on Halloween. "Where does the energy come from? Do you draw it from your environment, or does it come from your body?"

"Hey!" Travis points his fingers threateningly. "Back off. I'm the one asking the questions here."

"Right, no, sure." The woman backs up a step, hands casually out at her sides. "You were looking for your boyfriend, you said?"

Oh man, Wes is gonna kill him when he finds out… "That's right. You people took him earlier today. I need to know where you're keeping him."

Hey eyes light up. "Can he do what you do?"

Travis hesitates. "Is that relevant?"

"…probably not."

"Then I need you to just tell me where they'd take him. Can you do that?"

She hesitates, drops her gaze, and Travis throws up his hands. "God _dammit_." They could be doing god-knows what to Wes right now and he's found the one person in this place that can't help. He's about ready to start knocking down walls and to hell with the consequences.

"Fine," he sighs, running a hand through his hair. The other hand comes up, pointing at her. "Okay. I'm gonna have to knock you out, though."

"Wait!" She throws her hands up in front of her, shuffling back. "I don't know where they're keeping your boyfriend, but I can take you to the security room. It has all the camera feeds for the labs. I bet you can find him that way."

Travis squints suspiciously at her. "What's your name?"

"Jonelle." She lifts her head and doesn't seem frightened at all. "I can help you."

He only waffles for a moment before he steps aside, gesturing her into the hall. "Alright, Jonelle, lead on."

He doesn't trust her, of course. But he really doesn't have much of a choice.

 **XXXX**

 _A few more jolts like that might just kill you._

The henchman rushes in, screaming into his radio as the electricity stops. Wes does his solid best not to pass out.

Carefully, he lifts his head. His vision swims, but he can see the henchman easily enough; the man is frantic, probably panicking over what Crowl will do to him if anything happens to Wes.

Behind the gag, Wes grins.

He clenches his fists.

 **XXXX**

The security room is exactly where Jonelle said it would be. Travis stuns the guard and starts scrolling through camera feeds. Jonelle moves in beside him and helps.

"Why are you doing this?" he asks, before he can stop himself. "I mean, you work for these guys."

She's silent for a long minute, staring at the monitor before her. Travis drops it; he's got bigger things to worry about, like finding Wes. So long as she doesn't betray him somehow, Travis can't afford to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"I didn't—" She cuts herself off, biting her lip. She doesn't quite look at him. After another few moments have passed, she admits, "It wasn't supposed to be like this."

Travis chances a quick glance at her, but Jonelle's attention is fixated on the monitor like it's the most interesting thing in the world. "What do you mean?"

She blinks hard, purses her lips. "My research wasn't going anywhere. They were going to cancel my grants. And then these guys showed up, said they could fund my life's work. It was like a dream come true."

"More like a nightmare," Travis mutters, can't help himself.

Jonelle hears it and chuckles, a harsh, bitter sound. "Yeah. Turns out they're not as altruistic as they made themselves out to be. They brought me here, wanted me to do…" She can't even get the words out, which gives Travis an inkling of how bad it was. "I tried to say no, but I was already in too deep. I was afraid they would kill me if I turned them down again."

Travis recognizes her tone of voice. It's desperation, trying to justify doing something horrible because all the other options are worse.

He's used that tone of voice a few times himself.

"I get it," he says, and he does. "Sometimes you have to do things you don't want to. Sometimes it's the only way."

Sometimes there _is_ no right option, there's picking the lesser of two evils and living with the consequences, because you're damned if you do and damned if you don't.

Wes, he thinks bitterly, wouldn't understand at all.

"Thank you," he murmurs, and she ducks her head in acknowledgment.

Jonelle doesn't say anything else, and they scroll through the feeds in silence. Travis is bored already. Empty lab, empty lab, scientist with a pipette in a lab, empty storage room. Travis always figured evil never slept, but there's sure as hell not many people around.

"I found something," Jonelle says a few minutes later, just about when Travis has reached the breaking point. He eagerly abandons his monitors and hovers over her shoulder.

A half dozen goons are running down the hall, all cut from the same massive, took-too-many-hits-to-the-face cloth. Jonelle points to the man in the lead. "That's Crowl. He's…I don't know exactly what he does, but he's pretty high up."

"Can you figure out where he's going?"

"I can try…" She fiddles with the controls, and Travis goes back to his monitor, trying to pick up the group on his screen. A second later they've got the men, racing down the hall and piling into a room.

Neither of them are computer people like Kendall ("I'm a geneticist, okay, this isn't exactly my thing," Jonelle snaps in annoyed frustration, and Travis has never needed a particularly strong set of computer skills), but they manage between the two of them to find the camera feeds for the room the goons clambered into.

Travis's heart stops in his chest.

"Oh _fuck_."

Wes is suspended in the middle of the room, jerking wildly like a puppet.

Whatever they're doing, it's _not_ good.

 **XXXX**

Wes can barely see, there are so many spots in his vision, but he can recognize the harsh cadence of Crowl shouting orders. The words are fuzzy, distorted; over the racing pulse of his heart in his ears, he can't begin to make them out.

One more time, he thinks, one more time and his heart will probably just give out.

 _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry_ , he thinks, and he—

tumbles to the floor, legs giving out beneath him. It knocks the air out of him, stuns him—he didn't have a chance to brace himself.

Then there are hands upon him, pulling at him, and he feebly tries to fight them off, pushing them away as best he can. No more, no _more_ , he's _done_.

He clenches his fists and focuses every bit of his fading attention on his power.

The hands on his skin vanish, but the pain doesn't tear through him. After a second, Wes opens his eyes and blinks spots away, seeing, mere inches from his face, a perfect, seamless bubble of bright blue energy.

Behind the gag, Wes smiles.

"Stop him!" Crowl bellows, "Someone find a way to stop him!" Henchmen run around like chickens with their heads cut off, and a few white-coated scientists rush up to the energy shield, but they can't touch him.

Wes looks up, meets Crowl's eyes through the shield, and manages to hold one middle finger up in front of his face. Crowl reddens.

As forcefully as he can, Wes pushes his shield outward, a near-solid force exploding from his body, slamming scientists and henchmen alike into the walls.

As it turns out, his powers _can_ be used offensively.

 **XXXX**

"Whoo! That's my baby!" Travis pumps his fist in the air and does a quick touchdown dance. It always thrills him when people underestimate Wes. The man has always been sharper than he seems, and he doesn't hesitate to tear someone down if they've wronged him. Steel backbone, that's Wes all the way.

"Do you know where this is?" he demands of Jonelle, pointing at the monitor. "How do I get there?"

She stares at the monitor, eyes bright with a sort of fervid delight. "Amazing," she breathes, touching the screen, finger tracing the edge of Wes's shield.

"Jonelle! Hey!" Gently, Travis grabs her arm, forces her attention. "How do I get there?"

"Uh…" The scientist blinks as if dazed, giving her head a sharp shake. "Right. Let me see. This is…and we're…" Grabbing a piece of crumpled paper out of the trash, she scribbles a quick map. "Okay. We're the X, your boyfriend's at the star. It's not far."

"Perfect." Travis studies the map, memorizing it, then shoves it in his pocket in case his memory lets him down. He's halfway through the door before he pauses, glancing back, to see Jonelle at the monitor again, staring at Wes with that same rapt look of fascination on her face.

"Hey Jonelle." She blinks, turns to him. He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. "You should get out of here. Out of this place, this facility."

A wry, hollow smile lifts one corner of her mouth. Her eyes are flat. "Where would I go?"

"There's a boat in a little cove on the east side of the island. Wait like twenty minutes for us. If we're not there, you take it, you get as far away from these people as you can."

Her eyes widen. "You would do that?"

He just gives her a thin smile and backs out into the hallway. "Twenty minutes. Don't wait for us."

 **XXXX**

"What do you hope to accomplish with this, Mitchell?" Crowl asks, arms crossed in front of him. He doesn't even sound upset—a little annoyed, maybe, but mostly disappointed, like Wes is making a fuss just to get a rise out of him. Wes has a sudden flashback to his mother, which is more than disturbing in his current predicament.

He pulls the gag off, spitting out the taste of musty, dirty fabric. "What do you think I'm trying to accomplish?"

"You don't even know where you are," Crowl says, in a very reasonable tone of voice like maybe if he just explains his logic, Wes will see how foolish he's being and will settle down. Wes doesn't know if Crowl honestly believes that will work, or if he's just stalling. Give these guys enough time, and they'll manage to knock him out, and when he wakes up whatever method they'll have to stop his powers won't be enough to kill him.

If he's going to do anything, he has to do it now.

Shaking, he draws himself to his knees, which is a lot harder than it should be. Though, considering how many volts he sent through his body, it's probably not as surprising as all that. Honestly, it's a miracle he's managed to keep his shield wrapped around himself, all things considered.

"You can't have me, Crowl," he says calmly, perversely enjoying the frustrated rage that swims across the man's face. "You're gonna have to kill me to get want you want. Only somehow, I don't think you _can_ get what you want if I'm dead, or you wouldn't have stopped me earlier. You need me alive." He grins, the sharpest, shark-tooth smile he can find in himself. "You need _both_ of us alive."

And if there's one thing Wes can count on, it's that they won't find Travis. The man knows how to hide, and in less than twenty-four hours none of it will matter anyway.

Crowl growls, fists tightening at his side, and Wes stares him down. It's a stalemate, but Wes has no intention of losing. Paekman showed him that sometimes you have to die for what you believe in, and Travis taught him a long time ago that you don't give up until you've stopped breathing, and sometimes not even then.

Either Crowl kills him, or Wes leaves this place. But he won't be Crowl's guinea pig.

The stalemate is broken by startled shouting from the hallway, and then gunfire. Crowl's head snaps around. Wes can do little more than stay where he is, wondering what fresh obstacle is getting thrown in his path _now_.

Not an obstacle, he realizes a second later, recognizing the exhilarated shouts from the hallway, not an obstacle at all, but _Travis_.

He really came. He found Wes and he came.

If he had the energy, he'd probably cry a little right now.

Travis bounds into the room, shooting golden beams of light in abandon, whooping like a cowboy. It's ridiculous and more than a little effective—the people hit aren't getting up again. Crowl dives behind a workbench; the majority of his men follow suit.

"Wes!" Barely pausing, Travis skids across the floor, crashing to his knees in front of him. He slides through Wes's shield like it's not even there—Wes absently wonders if that's because of the shared properties of their powers, or just because it's _Travis._

It doesn't really matter, because Wes's shield automatically expands enough to cover them both, and Wes reaches out, grabs Travis's shoulders and pulls him close.

"You came," he gasps, and crashes their lips together.

Travis is startled just for a second before responding enthusiastically, and it's just like any one of their kisses, sparks of fire and lust, fueled by the competition and energy between them, a messy mix of feelings and thoughts that neither of them will ever admit aloud. It's been seven years, but this, this hasn't changed at all, and Wes has _missed_ this.

"You came," he gasps as he pulls away, resting his forehead against Travis's. "You came for me." He can feel himself shaking, tiny convulsions he can't control, and if it were anyone else, he'd be ashamed of his weakness. In front of Travis, he just feels like maybe this isn't so hopeless after all.

"Course I came for you, baby," Travis murmurs gently, pressing a quick, chaste kiss against his lips. "I wouldn't leave you behind."

Wes could cry, were they not surrounded by evil henchmen in the bad guy's fortress.

Travis pulls away, just far enough to look him in the eye. "You ready to get out of here?"

"You have a plan?" Wes asks hopefully.

Travis just grins rakishly, a familiar devil-may-care smile that makes him look about ten years old and promises nothing good. "Of course not. Figure we'd make it up as we went along."

"That's not a good way to run a rescue operation, Travis!" Ah, yes, he also remembers this frustration that nags at his very soul when Travis is being particularly _Travis._ He forgot how much it annoyed him.

"It's all good, baby." That grin again, and Travis grabs his hand, holding it up. "We got this."

He bangs their gauntlets together, a solid 'klung!' reverberating through his body, and Wes actually feels a little bit better.

He almost believes they might have a chance.

 **XXXX**

"Isn't this touching?" a smarmy, cruel voice sneers from the edge of the room. Travis tenses, turning, keeping his body between Wes and the voice. The man—Crowl, Jonelle had called him, the big bad boss goon—smirks at them from his spot behind a table. "But I'm glad. You saved us a lot of trouble hunting you down, Marks."

"Sorry to disappoint," Travis quips, "but we're not staying. People to see, evil megalomaniac groups to dismantle. You know how it is."

Crowl snorts. "You're outnumbered, and I've called for reinforcements. What do you hope to do here?"

A lance of golden light hits the table right by Crowl's head, turning it to melted plastic and metal. Travis grins at him. "I can shoot lazer beams with my fingers. I think we'll be okay."

Crowl leans around the table and fires, but the bullet pings harmlessly against Wes's shield. "It won't be that easy, Marks. We won't let you go, not now."

"I'm not giving you much choice in the matter." Man, this is so cool, trading witty quips with the bad guy like any respected superhero. He turns and grins over his shoulder at Wes. "Are you seeing this, babe? How cool is this?"

Wes just looks at him, gaze frighteningly blank, and Travis's stomach clenches. "Wes?"

Wes blinks slowly, slumping. Two things happen at once: Travis catches him, cursing; and another shot rings out, tearing through Travis's upper arm, making him curse again. Wes's shield is fading, flickering like an old static-y TV, and that…could be a problem. Lazer guns are great and all, but Travis was kind of counting on Wes's shield as a pretty damn big component of Operation Blast Their Way Out Of Here.

"Still so confident?" Crowl smirks, and Travis just smirks back at him, refusing to falter. Never let them see they're getting you down, that's the first rule of warfare.

Wes stirs against him, fingers feebly tightening in Travis's shirt. "Plan B?" he asks, voice little more than a breathy whisper.

"Workin' on it." Travis's gaze sweeps the room, looking for an escape route. "Just hang on a little longer, babe."

He can hear footsteps in the hall, reinforcements coming to back Crowl up.

 **XXXX**

 **Back In The Day**

Wes is asleep already. Travis slinks into the room silently, perching on the edge of the bed. His chest, as is typical around Wes, swells with an overwhelmingly fond affection, but covering all that is a cold dejection, a smoky pall in his soul that not even the sight of Wes can lift.

"I messed up, baby," he whispers, the words barely carrying even in the silent room. "I did something stupid and I messed up, and I—I don't know how to get out of this one."

He's still not sure how things went so wrong, but the _how_ doesn't matter so much. The fact is, it _did_ go bad, and everything is fucked, and if Travis stays here, he's gonna bring a world of hurt down on everything around him. Including Wes.

In the past, he's never had any trouble up and leaving when things got hot. He lives a transient life, never settling down for long, never even fully unpacking so he can make a quick getaway.

And now, for the first time, he doesn't want to go. He wants to stay here, in this shitty dorm apartment with Wes, making shitty jokes and eating Wes's cooking and having fights about whose turn it is to do the laundry. He wants this happiness.

But everything is fucked up beyond belief, and he needs to leave before it spills over onto Wes.

"I'm sorry, baby," he murmurs, reaching out and petting Wes's hair. "I should have said no."

But even then, he hadn't been able to risk it. Not when Wes was on the line. God, everything had been so much _easier_ before he took Paekman up on his offer, before he ever met Wes. Before, it had just been him, and leaving had been as simple as climbing on his bike and waving goodbye over his shoulder.

Now everything is so _complicated_ , and he doesn't know what to do.

Wes stirs, eyes fluttering, and he turns, blinking drowsily up at Travis. When he sees who's leaning over him, his lips curl in this beatific, adoring smile, and there's not a single wall or barrier between them. Everything is written right on his face.

It makes Travis heart clench painfully in his chest.

"Hey," Wes mumbles, words slurred with sleep. "You're home late."

 _Home_. God…

"Yeah." Travis is good at hiding what he's really feeling—he shoves the sudden tears down and returns Wes's smile with one of his own. "Late night. Got caught up."

"Mmm." Wes rolls over, nuzzling into Travis's palm. "You coming to bed?"

"Soon." Travis leans down, presses a gentle kiss to the blonde's forehead. "I'll be in soon. Go back to sleep."

Wes closes his eyes and mumbles, "Kay," already slipping back to sleep. Travis quietly gets up, biting his lip, and he makes sure to close the door behind him before he breaks down.

Shit. _Shit_. This wasn't supposed to happen. He was only supposed to stay a few weeks and move on. He wasn't supposed to care like this, wasn't supposed to make a _home_ here.

He wasn't supposed to fall in _love_.

"I have to leave," he whispers to the darkened living room. "I have to leave _right now_." It won't take long—he always keeps an emergency bag packed for just this sort of occasion, and he knows how to get his stuff from the bedroom without waking Wes up. That won't be a problem.

No, the problem is that he's going to have to burn every fucking bridge with Wes, right now, make Wes hate him so fiercely that no one will ever come to him looking for Travis. He _has_ to. It's the only way to keep Wes safe.

" _Fuck._ " Why can't he keep Wes safe _without_ breaking both of their hearts?

Shaking his head, Travis scrubs his face and pushes himself upright. No time for this. He needs to be out of here within the hour. He can break down properly when he's holed up somewhere, _away_ from Wes.

Now. What's something terrible that will make Wes hate him for a while, but not so terrible that it can't possibly be forgiven once this all dies down?

Travis heads for the silverware drawer.

 **XXXX**

 **Now**

The footsteps pound up the hall, and Crowl smirks smugly at them. Travis curses and readies his finger guns, prepared to go down fighting if that's what it takes.

Then the tenor of those footsteps sinks in, and Travis frowns. That doesn't sound like people on a mission running to be Crowl's backup. That sounds like a panicked stampede.

Crowl hears it to, and the smirk drops off his face. He storms to the door. "What in the—"

A dozen people race by, people in white lab coats and black military-esque fatigues and all manner of undress. They're panicking, shouting at each other, and more than half of them are carrying weapons of some kind. Crowl reaches out and grabs the last straggler as the horde passes, a white-coated lab tech.

"What's happening?" Crowl shouts, shaking the tech. "What is this?"

The tech swallows, so pale his freckles stand out in stark relief. "Sir!" he squeaks, "Containment has failed!"

It means nothing to Travis, but it clearly means something to Crowl and his men. They all curse and grab their weapons.

And then Travis hears it.

Imagine a zoo. Imagine a zoo filled with every creature possible.

Now imagine that every one of those creatures is angry, and release them.

That's what Travis can hear, a wild cacophony of roars and growls and shrieks, screams and howls and he doesn't even know what else. It sounds like _hundreds_ of animals, and they're all angry.

Travis doesn't know what experiments they've been doing on those animals, but it's clearly enough to freak out even Crowl.

Travis can use that.

"Come on, baby," he murmurs, slinging Wes's arm over his shoulder. "Plan B just arrived. I'm gonna need your shield again."

Wes groans, slumping against Travis's side, but the shield steadies marginally. Good enough.

Travis takes a breath, waits until Crowl is peering into the hall, and starts shooting. It's not the easiest thing moving while shooting _and_ dragging Wes along, since Wes is pretty much at the end of his rope and not contributing much to the process. But the adrenaline is pumping and Travis is more than ready to get out of this evil place with its comic book villains, so he's making pretty good time.

He doesn't get Crowl. The man ducks behind his table when he realizes Travis is on the move, but that opens the doorway. Travis ducks into the hallway and _holy shit._

 _There is a fucking wolf bounding down the hall._

Travis curses, resisting the immediate urge to duck back into the room he just came from. Crowl is still in there, and Travis isn't convinced the wolf is the bigger threat of the two. Seriously a fucking _wolf_. What the hell are these people _doing_?

He ducks just as the wolf leaps, claws scraping across the edge of Wes's shield. The shield flickers. Fuck. Fuckity fucking _fuck._ If there are more animals like that roaming around the halls, they won't last long without Wes's shield.

A _wolf._ What the fucking _hell?_

The wolf turns, claws skidding on the floor, and prepares to leap once more. Travis offers up a silent apology prayer and aims. The poor thing was probably just minding its own business, doing its own wolfy things, and then it got snatched and experimented on and it doesn't deserve this.

But if it's a choice between him and some mad scientist's experiment, he's gonna choose him every time. More importantly, he's going to choose _Wes_.

"Sorry buddy," he murmurs, and lets loose.

The wolf goes down. Well, most of the wolf goes down. The rest of it disappears as easily as rock and concrete does against his lazer guns.

For the first time, Travis feels a little bit sickened by his powers.

He can still hear the sounds of gunfire and enraged animal cries, but for the moment, this hallway is clear. He hustles towards the end before that changes. Last thing he needs is to shoot another innocent animal just to save his own skin. Or, worse yet, have Crowl emerge from his hidey-hole before he's gotten them to safety.

Wes groans on his shoulder and goes a little more boneless; the blue shield flickers and gets a little thinner.

"Hang in there, baby. Just a little bit farther." All they have to do is get outside. Then they'll go to the boat and…and fuck, he has no idea how long it's been. For all he knows, Jonelle is halfway to the city by now.

"I bet these guys have boats," he mutters to himself, lurching around the corner of the hall. "Big shiny evil boats. I'm totally gonna steal one. It's gonna be amazing."

In any other circumstances, Wes would have a pithy little comment. Right now he just exhales softly Travis gets a little more worried. So he does what he always does; pretends he's not freaking out inside.

"Next time _I_ get to pass out at totally inopportune moments so _you_ get to drag me out, alright? I mean, it's only fair."

Shit. He forgot how identical all these hallways are. He's totally turned around, has no idea how to get back to his starting point.

Fuck it. He'll just cut a hole through walls and start walking in a straight line. Eventually he'll end up outside, right?

"Travis!"

"Jesus!" He jumps, almost losing Wes and sending the beam of golden energy through the ceiling. It's a clean cut, no rubble or dust falling down on him, but still. He repositions Wes on his shoulder and turns.

Jonelle is standing at the end of the hallway, frantically waving him towards her. "Come on! This way!"

Travis is too relieved to be upset that she's not with the boat heading for shore and all the freedom that entails. He scampers towards her, keeping a wary eye out for wayward animals or henchmen. As soon as he's close enough, Jonelle ducks under Wes's other side, easing some of his weight.

"Why aren't you at the boat?" Travis asks, following her lead down the halls. "You should be long gone by now."

"It didn't feel right, leaving you behind." Jonelle stares down the hall, mouth a grim line. "I thought I'd start working on my redemption a little early."

"I take it all this—" He waves a hand, encompassing the continued screams of released animals, audible enough though luckily the hallway they're in remains clear. "—is your doing?"

She flashes him a grin that's got very little mirth in it. "I've done a lot of work in that section. I know all the codes."

Travis doesn't push.

They continue their journey uninterrupted, except for a minor scuffle they have to get through involving two goons facing off against two very pissed-off…ostriches? Travis doesn't even want to know. Then Jonelle says, "Almost there," and they turn the corner and there's a storage room with a very familiar hole in the wall.

"We made it, baby," Travis whispers, pressing a quick, light kiss against Wes's temple. "We're almost home."

If he hadn't had the evidence of Wes's shield around him this entire time, he wouldn't have even thought Wes was still conscious. As it is, he's pretty sure Wes has been focusing everything he has on keeping the shield up, setting aside little things like walking for later.

With Travis's words, Wes shudders, exhales a breathy, nearly inaudible, "Good," and passes out. The remnants of his shield vanish.

Silently, he swings Wes up into his arms and, with Jonelle leading the way, heads to the boat.

 **XXXX**

Once away from the island, it's all smooth sailing, pun intended. Travis wraps Wes up in his jacket and lets Jonelle do a quick, brief examination while he steers. Just a few minutes from shore, she comes up, arms crossed.

"I think he'll be okay. He's got some burns from the electrocution, and some bruising, and he'll probably be a bit shocky for a while, but with rest, he should be fine. Honestly, he's doing a lot better than I would have expected." Her eyes trail to his forearm, to the metal gauntlet glinting silver in the dark night. "Something to do with that, I suppose?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Travis laughs, because who the hell knows anymore.

Money comes out onto the docks when the boat pulls up. He doesn't ask any questions, and he seems totally unfazed by the fact that Travis went out alone and came back with two extra people. He simply ties the boat to the dock and asks if they want a ride.

Travis declines the ride, but does ask to borrow a car. With some maneuvering, they get Wes situated in the back seat, Jonelle climbing in after him. For a second after he closes the door, Travis just stands there, feeling the adrenaline fade, leaving him shaky and dizzy. Fuck, _fuck,_ that had been close tonight, and he'd almost— _Wes_ had almost—

A big, heavy hand claps down on the back of his neck. Travis jumps, twisting to look up at his foster brother.

Despite his tattoos and his size, Money can pull off 'concerned endearing older brother' pretty well. "You alright, T-Bone?" he asks. "You need anything else?"

Travis manages a small, exhausted smile. "Nah, Money. I'm okay." If Travis did need anything else, he has no doubt Money would be able to make it happen, no matter how illegal. Sadly, _illegal_ and _impossible_ are two different things, and Money doesn't have the ability to go back in time so none of this ever happened, so Wes wasn't kidnapped and tortured and nearly electrocuted himself to death—

Travis clenches his eyes and forces the images away. Not the time. Not now.

When he opens them, Money is staring down at him in concern. "You sure you don't want me to give you a ride?" he asks.

Travis just shakes his head, slumping a little in his foster brother's grip. The big man easily holds his weight. "Nah. I appreciate it, but we're good." He highly doubts Kendall would appreciate a (possible) drug dealer knowing where she lives, even if he is Travis's brother.

Money gives him a gentle squeeze and nods, not liking it, but not about to argue. "You should come visit more often," he chides, like they're still kids. "Mama misses you."

Travis can't help but laugh at that, glancing down at the gauntlet on his arm. "You know, I think I'll be sticking around for a while."

They say their goodbyes, Travis promising to come over sometime later this week, and he climbs into the car. Jonelle has carefully buckled Wes into the backseat, sitting beside him so he slumps against her, supported. She meets his eyes in the rearview mirror.

"Everything okay?"

As reassuringly as he can, he says, "Yeah, everything's fine."

And at least for now, it is.

He makes one quick phone call in the car to update Kendall that they're all safe and sound and he's bringing a her guest, promising the full version of events tomorrow, once they're all rested. When he hangs up, he hastens to reassure Jonelle. "Kendall's great, you'll like her. She's got a spare room she's willing to share, and tomorrow…"

Jonelle runs her hand over her face and nods. "Yeah."

Neither of them knows what tomorrow is going to bring, but at least there _will_ be a tomorrow, and it won't be anything like today.

Some days, that's more than enough.

Kendall is waiting at the front door of the apartment building, an unassuming redhead in a pale blue cardigan. Probably completely different from the types Jonelle dealt with on that island, and she only hesitates a minute before climbing out of the car.

"See you tomorrow," she says, and Travis waves two fingers. He lingers a moment, long enough to watch them shake hands, Kendall guiding Jonelle inside. As soon as the door closes behind the two women, Travis pulls away from the curb.

Wes is still unconscious when Travis pulls up in front of his place. Carefully, more carefully than he's treated pretty much anything in his life, Travis eases Wes into his arms and heads inside. He doesn't relax until he's shut the door behind him and locked it, and even then he has to deposit Wes on the bed and scour the room to make sure no one's been inside before his heart settles.

The last of the adrenaline fades away in a rush, and he collapses on the edge of the bed, dropping his head in his hands. "You scared me, baby," he mutters into his palms. "Don't do that again."

Wes, of course, doesn't answer.

Exhaustion makes his movements sluggish and clumsy. He strips out of his clothes, dropping them on the floor beside the bed, and crawls up next to Wes. He knows Wes wouldn't appreciate Travis draping himself against him, but Wes is unconscious and Travis needs the contact, needs to know that Wes is still alive, still breathing. He pulls Wes against him, an arm wrapped around his chest, and he can feel the movement of Wes's ribs, can feel every breath the blonde takes.

He thinks, wrapped up with Wes like this, he might be able to stave off the worst of the nightmares.

Sighing, Travis closes his eyes and tries to go to sleep. It'll be hard, he thinks, after the night he's had, but…

He's out before he can finish the thought.

 **XXXX**

 **Back In The Day**

He doesn't plan to kiss Travis. It just sort of _happens_. Travis is leaning against the counter, all long lines and expansive hand gestures as he talks, and Wes just thinks _Wow_ , and leans in and presses their lips together. Travis freezes, hands in the air, and the moment drags on, a kiss that lasts an eternity.

Slowly, Wes pulls back and wonders if that was a supremely bad idea.

Travis blinks, a slow lazy sweep of lashes, and runs his thumb over his lower lip. "What was that for?" he asks, a mildly curious note in his voice.

Wes blinks back, retreating a step. "Sorry. I thought—my mistake. I wasn't—"

"Wes." Travis cuts him off gently, tone warm and an amused gleam in his eye. "I wasn't _complaining_. I just wondered what that was for."

Wes feels a little more hopeful. "You were flirting with me." He says this with more confidence than he feels. He's _fairly_ certain Travis was flirting with him, but this sort of thing has never been his strong suit, and Travis is a pretty friendly guy. It is _possible_ that Wes has misinterpreted events.

He really hopes he hasn't, though, because otherwise things will just get awkward, considering the 'few weeks' Travis was supposed to stay here has ended up being over two months and Wes is working on some pretty serious crush-like feelings here.

Travis rubs his thumb over his lip again, and that's really distracting and sexy and he should stop doing it at once. "Sure I was," he says, which brings Wes's spirits up because he was _right_ , Travis _was_ flirting with him! And then Travis adds, "I wasn't sure you'd noticed," and Wes's spirits plummet again.

"You wasn't sure I'd _noticed_?" How insulting is that? Even if it is marginally accurate.

"Well, you weren't responding to me." Travis shrugs. "I figured you either hadn't noticed or you weren't interested. I was hoping it was the former." He grins, that easy, butter-won't-melt smile that sends tingles down Wes's spine. (It was those tingles that clued Wes in that he might be a bit taken with Paekman's friend.) "I take it this means you are, in fact, interested?"

"I might be." Travis pushes off the counter, slinks across the room until he's standing right in front of Wes, and Wes feels his heart stutter in his chest. "I mean, if you are."

"Oh, trust me, Wes, I am definitely interested." Travis grins again, leaning in, and then they're kissing, and it's deeper than the first one, hotter, and Wes _definitely_ didn't plan this but he's certainly not complaining.

Neither of them hear the door open until Paekman says, "Hey guys, I got the— _woah!"_ They break apart to find Paekman standing in the doorway with a container of eggs in his hand, eyes wide.

Wes flushes; Travis grins and doesn't move more than an inch away from Wes. "Hey, Paekman."

Paekman slowly nods. "Okay. Not what I expected, but sure, I can run with it." Then he grins. "You know, I think this is the beginning of a _beautiful_ friendship."

Wes groans and covers his eyes. "I hate you." When Travis drops his forehead onto Wes's shoulder and starts snickering uncontrollably, Wes clarifies, "I hate you both."

But of course he doesn't.

 **XXXX**

 **Now**

Wes wakes slowly, feeling warm and secure and _safe_. He revels in the feeling for a good five minutes, carefully categorizing the aches and pains in his body. Some sore spots, but nothing he can't live with. More important is the warmth around him, that feeling of being surrounded on all sides and _protected_.

Knowing what he's going to find, Wes unhurriedly opens his eyes, and he's met with Travis's face, peaceful in sleep.

Leisurely, Wes drinks in the sight, taking his time while Travis is still asleep. The other man has grown, matured some, but there's nothing here that Wes doesn't recognize from long ago. Travis has grown, but he hasn't changed all that much.

Despite himself and everything that happened between them, Wes feels a small, slow smile cross his face, full of fond nostalgia, because he remembers this, waking up to Travis's face every day, and he remembers how he felt every single time he opened his eyes and Travis was there.

Seven years is a long time, but right now, it might as well have been yesterday.

Gently, he reaches out, fingers ghosting over Travis's face, the angle of his cheekbone, the sharp line of his jaw. Familiar enough, even with all the ways that have changed.

Under his touch, Travis stirs, making a little snuffing/sighing sound, and his eyes flutter open. Wes doesn't remove his hand.

Gradually, Travis's eyes focus on Wes, and a sleepy smile curls his lips. "Hey. How you feeling?"

"I've been better," Wes admits, fingers tracing the shell of Travis's ear. "I still hate you, you know."

"Yeah." Travis's gaze is warm, soft, just the way Wes remembered. Seven years, and it's like nothing has changed at all. "I figured that."

It's too early and he's too content; Wes just can't muster up his normal level of antipathy for his ex. His hand settles, cupping the side of Travis's face, and he remembers kissing Travis last night—that, too, like nothing had changed.

So much time has passed, and some things will never be the same. But maybe some things never quite fade away, either.

"But maybe not as much as I did yesterday," he admits.

Travis's eyes crinkle at the corners, and he leans in, pressing their foreheads together. It's intimate, and sweet, and it reminds Wes of the old days, when they had nothing to worry about but themselves.

"You know what?" Travis murmurs. "I think I can live with that."

Wes thinks he can live with that too.

 **XXXX**

They finally make it to Kendall's around noon, after reaffirming to themselves they are both very much alive. Wes aches in pretty much every part of his body, he has bruises that are already an ugly purple thanks to his rough treatment, and he has a nice set of burns around his wrist from the torture device they rigged him to.

"Could be worse," Travis tells him cheerfully when he complains about it. "You could be dead. Or still back there." Which is a very valid point, but doesn't keep Wes from throwing a wadded up piece of paper at him.

He's momentarily thrown when they step into the lair, because the woman sitting there definitely is _not_ Kendall. But then Travis says, "Hey, Jonelle," and yes, that's right, Travis did mention her.

"Kendall's upstairs making sandwiches," Jonelle informs them, which makes Travis rush off to help because he's a five-year-old boy, seriously, all he thinks about is food and toys. Wes rolls his eyes and eases into a chair, ignoring the way the brunette is watching him.

"You're looking much better this morning," she says after a minute.

Wes laughs a little dryly. "That's funny, I feel like crap. Though, as Travis keeps pointing out, I could be feeling a lot worse."

She doesn't laugh. Her eyes are solemn and dark, her tone dead serious. "You could be."

And Wes is utterly reminded that Jonelle _was there_ , subjected to Crowl and his men, forced to do terrible things just to stay alive. Wes was only there for one day; Jonelle was there for so much longer, and she still stayed strong, didn't give up and helped them when she could.

"Thank you," he says, as heartfelt as he can. "Thank you for everything."

Travis gave him the story on the way here. Without Jonelle, Wes doesn't know that they'd have made it off that island alive. They owe their lives to her.

She smiles, the sharp lines of her face softening, easing. "Thank _you_ ," she returns, and Wes knows getting her off the island is probably the least of it.

There's not much else to say, and a couple of minutes later, Kendall and Travis return with sandwiches, chips and soda.

They tell Kendall the story while they eat, all three of them filling in their respective parts of the tale. Kendall listens wide-eyed with horror, barely touching her food. Wes understands. It's the sort of thing that makes it easy to lose one's appetite. He's barely touched his sandwich.

(Travis, of course, eats on like he's never had food before, because he is a childish slob. Wes isn't even surprised.)

"And to think," Kendall breathes when the story is finished, "all this time and they were just offshore."

"The scariest monsters are the ones you don't know are right behind you," Jonelle says, crunching viciously on a chip.

There's an awkward silence.

Wes turns to Kendall. "What happened on your end while we were gone?"

"Well." Kendall gingerly picks the crust off her sandwich. "I gave Derek Henry to the police. I couldn't tie him to Paek's death, but there were some emails alluding to PC Labs the night of the explosion. Plus I found a bunch of stuff the FBI and the CIA are going to be _very_ interested in. All sent to them in a helpful anonymous tip, of course." She grins and takes a sip of her soda. "Let's just say nothing ever _really_ gets deleted from the internet."

It's kind of scary. She seems so sweet at first glance.

"So now what?" Wes puts down his sandwich, looks around the group. "We just…go back to our normal lives?"

Jonelle snorts. "It's been years. I don't have a normal life to go back to."

Wow. Way to be an insensitive jackass, Mitchell.

"Can we do that?" Travis asks around a mouthful of his sandwich. Wes scowls at him; he quickly swallows before speaking again. "I mean, the SIS is still out there. _Crowl_ is still out there. Going back to our lives would be like painting targets on our backs." He holds up his arm, the gauntlet glistening in the lights. "Plus, there's this to consider."

Wes glares at his own gauntlet, as though enough force will make it fall right off. "So what, then? We go into hiding for the rest of our lives? Because I'm saying this now, that plan _sucks_."

There a long moment of silence. When Wes looks up, Travis is grinning.

"No."

"Aww, Wes, you haven't even heard what I'm gonna say!"

"I don't need to hear it to know I'm not going to like it."

"So here's my idea." Travis turns to the two women, ignoring Wes entirely. "We become a superhero team!"

Wes drops his head in hands. "I knew it."

Travis continues to ignore him. "I mean, we've got everything we need right here! We've got the secret lair, which is a must—"

"I never agreed to loan out my lair," Kendall interjects.

"—and we've got a reclusive hacker genius and a mad scientist—"

"Excuse you!" Jonelle exclaims.

"—and, of course, two superheroes." Travis holds out his hands, grinning triumphantly. "I even came up with names."

"I know I'm going to regret this," Wes purses his lips and looks at Travis, "but what did you come up with?"

The other man points dramatically at Wes. "You're Enigma. For the Enigma Project, right? Plus it's totally cool."

That's actually a half-decent name. Wes is more annoyed Travis came up with it first.

Travis points his thumbs at himself and beams. "And I'm gonna be T-Bone."

Wes covers his face and has to take a few breaths. "That's stupid. Your superhero name can't be your _actual_ nickname. And what's the point of having a secret identity if you won't wear the mask?"

"The mask is _stupid_ , Wes."

"I cannot believe I'm actually having this conversation."

"I don't know," Kendall says, cutting off Travis's next quip. She shrugs. "It could be kind of cool."

Wes should have remembered. She's like Travis when it comes to this superhero shit.

"You can't be serious." Wes looks imploringly at Jonelle, hoping for another voice of reason. "Tell me you're not buying this."

The brunette raises her eyebrows in a way that could mean _You're absolutely right Wes how did they ever manage without you,_ or it could mean _This is going to be awesome so suck it up_.

"I've got nothing better to do," she says, which means Wes's first interpretation of her eyebrows was absolutely wrong. He needs to learn how to read people's facial expressions better. "We could track down the SIS while we help people. Isn't that better than doing nothing?"

Wes raises his eyes to the ceiling. "I'm surrounded by crazy people."

"Three to one. I think you lost this one, Wes," Kendall chirps, sounding much too excited about this whole thing.

"It's your job to convince your boyfriend," Jonelle informs Travis.

In his peripherals, Wes sees Travis freeze. A cold, deadly calm settles over him, and he slowly turns and looks at his ex.

"Your _what?_ "

"It wasn't like that, man." Travis shifts, grins feebly. "You know how things get. Sometimes you say something in the heat of the moment—"

"The moment you called me your _boyfriend?_ "

"Now, Wes." Warily, Travis puts his hands up, inching backwards. "Remember this morning? Remember how you didn't hate me as much today?"

Wes clenches his hands into fists, a bright blue glow bubbling up around his hands. "That doesn't give you the right to call me your _boyfriend_."

"Come on, man, we're gonna be _superheroes_ together! Can't you let bygones be bygones?"

Wes leans forward and whispers one word, low and menacing, promising a world of hurt.

" _Silverware_."

Travis bolts. Wes leaps after him. Behind him, he can hear Kendall squawk, a frantic, "Not by the computers!"

As he chases after Travis, Wes thinks that Travis's superhero idea isn't _complete_ crap. Dangerous, probably, and most definitely reckless, but they've got these powers so they might as well use them helping people. And, as Travis pointed out, the SIS is still out there. It would be good to practice using these powers as much as possible to be prepared for their next encounter.

He's going to give in, eventually. But not right away. And he certainly won't admit Travis's plans have merit. At least not _aloud_.

Travis leaps over a chair, grinning over his shoulder at Wes, urging him on. It's just like old times, when they used to get in one of their fights, racing around the dorm after each other while Paekman tried to intervene without physically getting between them in the process. For a moment, all the pain and anger of the last seven years is gone like it never was, and it's perfect.

Travis has to stick around for the foreseeable future, to bang their gauntlets every twenty-four hours. His life is on the line. This time, he _has_ to stay.

Wes thinks he could probably get used to that.

He won't admit that, either.

 **OOOO**

 **OOOO**

 **Travis's aliases are, in order: his stage name, and characters from Barbershop, Takers, and Sleeper Cell.**

 **PC Labs is a reference to Property Crimes, where Paekman worked before SIS, and Kelvin Yu is Paekman's actor.**

 **This was a fun one to write. Let me know what you thought! Comments, reviews, and constructive criticism are always welcome.**

 **Until next time~!**


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